Curtis brushed his teeth tonight, which was good. But he was chewing gum at the time, which I guess wasn't too good.

Another Christmas Miracle

I took Curtis to Cookie Cutters today to deal with his hippie hair. To my surprise, he didn't freak out when we got there, which meant he didn't have to sit on my lap, which meant I didn't have to hold the kid thrashing in rage. And he wore his cape, which meant we didn't both have to get covered in hair, which in turn makes one of us even more upset. And he didn't move his head around like Stevie Wonder, causing the poor 18-year-old barber girl to do about as good a job as I could with my sideburn trimmer. Merry Christmas every one.

Christmas Has Come Early

Right now Paige and Curtis are at "Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked."

Without Traci and me.

Thanks grandparents, for making this the best Christmas ever.

Li'l Rudolph or The Plight of Christopher Columbus

Paige had her school Christmas program today. She and her fellow kindergarteners sang Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer. She was pretty excited about singing such awesome echoes as "like a lightbulb." The real surprise came when the kids followed "you'll go down in history," with "like Justin Bieber!"

"Justin Bieber?" I asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "Because not everybody knows who Columbus is."

And there you have it. Bieber discovered America.

(And he was like "Baby, baby, baby, oh.")

Heavyweight Tate

At some point, our little baby boy turned into a chubby linebacker. Last night, I was bouncing him on my foot and now my thighs feel like I just ran a 5k.

"Just more of me to love, Dad," his eyes said. "Just more of me to love."

"These Feet are Delicious," Starring Tate

It's hard enough to feed Tate with his hands flailing about. But when he gets his feet in the mix? Forget about it.



Can't see the video? Click here.

Words with Enemies

I'm about as good at Words with Friends as I am at Fantasy Football (I told the commissioner I wasn't going to play after last year's 1-12 season. He said it had just been a "rebuilding year."). I generally lose to any opponent by 50-200 points.

My friend Brett always slaughters me. But this time was different. Four simple letters, J-O-Y-S, netted me 105 points, thanks to both a triple letter AND a triple word score. 105 points! I had to tell Traci. (And I wanted to tell everyone I know.)

I chose not to call it out to Brett. What kind of sore winner would I be if I did?

But then things started to change. Brett would throw out a 30-point word, and then a 35, and then a 50!

This was not looking good. My hands were starting to sweat.

And then he pulled away. The final score was 389-373, despite my 100-point word.

If only I had the letters to spell d-e-j-e-c-t-e-d.

Tonsils Out, Evil Remains

We didn't tell Curtis he was getting his tonsils out until we got to the hospital. Not surprisingly, he showed his strong will as soon as we got into the exam room.

NURSE: Hi, Curtis. Can you put on these nice little jammies and socks?

Curtis refuses.

NURSE: I've got this really cool coloring book. Do you want to color in it?

He throws it on the floor.

He kicked and screamed as the nurse tried to take his temperature and listen to his heart. He writhed and screamed as they gave him his medicine (a light sedative), and then quickly calmed down as it kicked in. Even drugged up, he wasn't about to put on that hospital gown and, refusing to ride in the little wagon to the Operating Room, had to be carried away (screaming) by anesthesiologist in just his diaper.

The doctor told us a tonsillectomy would be easy for him--about a 20 minute procedure--but hard for us, who would have to deal with an upset little guy for a couple of weeks.

As promised, the doctor appeared after only a few minutes to tell us that all had gone well.

"He was pretty worked up when he came into the O.R.," he said. "He threw his truck at us."

"But crying just makes you breathe deeper and it only took about two breaths before his sedative mask kicked in."



He was screaming again when he was delivered to us in the recovery area, which I'm sure didn't feel good on his sore throat. He looked like he'd been through the ringer, with scratches on his face where I'm sure he was trying to claw off his oxygen mask. It was pretty sad to see him with his little IV in his hand. Fortunately, a kid-sized Lortab knocked him back out and he spent the rest of day in a foggy haze.

 
The doctor was right about the recovery time. We had about 10 days where he didn't want to eat anything (not even the freezer full of popsicles and ice cream), woke up screaming (and often kicking) several times a night, and was generally miserable.

And then he was back to normal.

They don't take kids' tonsils out like they used to. Apparently, Curtis' were mega enough, and causing enough earaches and sore throats, that it warranted the procedure. The doctor also thought it would help Curtis get a more restful sleep each night.

For the kid who wakes up each morning in ornery mode, I thought this was going to be a life changer. I had convinced myself that all of his naughtiness was residing in those tonsils and when they came out, we'd have a brand new boy.

Nope. Still evil.

Sharing and Caring

Paige is such a considerate six-year-old. When she woke us up at one in the morning, she said, "I tried not to throw up on my bed." And she didn't. Instead she, from her top bunk, threw up over the side--and onto her little brother below. Fortunately, we were able to change Curtis' blankets without him even waking up.

The next night it was Curtis' turn to be sick. He didn't have anyone below him to throw up on, but he did manage to hit just about every surface in the house.

Vomit is a little bit like thinking you have lice. Once you smell it, you think everything smells like it. Traci was lying in the bed and said, "Do you still smell throw up somewhere?" Unable to locate the source, she reached over and grabbed the laptop next to the bed and started typing away. A few keystrokes in and there was some crunching in the keyboard.

I spent yesterday prying up the keys and digging out the dried vomit.

Too much information?

Obedience

Curtis did something quite unexpected tonight. I asked him to stop playing and get his pajamas on. And he did!

Quite surprised, I said, "Curtis, thanks for being obedient, buddy."

"I learned about being obedient in nursery."

Had someone taken my terrible three-year-old and replaced him with this kid?

Before I could even finish that thought, Curtis walked up to me and punched me in the stomach.

Nope. Still the same kid.

Curtis: The Fugitive

Paige skipping school wasn't the only big news of the day. Traci came home with Curtis' preschool picture as well. She texted this to me:

She added in her note, "I feel like this pretty much sums up Curtis as a three-year-old."

Curtis isn't going to let anyone tell him what to do. Do you think Curtis is going to smile or say cheese just because you ask him to? Oh, heavens no. Instead, he's going to just go ahead and pose for his eventual mugshot. What can I say, he's a tough guy.

The next day, I tried to sneak a smile out of him as we walked Paige to the bus stop. I didn't capture any teeth, but I did get this shot of him wearing his Salt Lake Bees hat.

Underneath that rough exterior, he's really a softie.

Parenthood Firsts: The "Sick" Day

I was at work when Paige's elementary school called.

"Hi, this is the secretary. We've got Paige here in the sick room. She says her stomach doesn't feel well and she thinks she might throw up."

Uh-oh.

"Can you come pick her up or would you like us to keep her here?"

"I'm at work, but my wife should be home. Let me see if I can track her down."

I found Traci and she headed over to pick up our sick little girl. I was heading into a meeting, but I asked her to text me when she picked Paige up.


TRACI: I've got her, but I feel really doubtful that she's sick.


This was at about 11:00. Traci takes Curtis to preschool at 12:30.


SPENCER: See if she wants to go back when you take Curtis.


TRACI: She's mad because I told her that if she's sick, she can't have any Halloween candy. She doesn't want to go back, though.


TRACI: She just asked me for lunch. I asked about her "sick" stomach. She told me it's actually her teeth that hurt. What is the emoticon for rolling eyes? 


Despite the lack of candy, Paige seemed to have a wonderful day off of school. I got this text later in the afternoon.


TRACI: Paige is in her room playing school. Apparently being a teacher requires you to speak in a British accent. 


Oh, the irony of staying home from school just so you can play school in your room.


I guess this shouldn't have come as too much of a surprise. Just the Sunday before, Paige said to me, "Can we stay home from church today?"


"No," I replied. "We have to go to church."


"We could just pretend we're sick."


Yes, I thought. Yes, we could.

The Crypt Keeper Five

Along with parenthood has come the need for favorites. Favorite colors, and numbers, and Wiggles, and monster trucks, and Strawberry Shortcake characters. And, of course, favorite holidays.

Paige loves holidays. She'll bound into our bedroom to awake us with cheers of "It's Martin Luther King Day!" or "I can't believe it's already Labor Day!" But Halloween, that's her number one holiday.

Curtis, on the other hand, is clearly rooted in his terrible, terrible threes and kind of hates everything. He spent all of last Halloween trying to get out of his costume, only to tell us that he wanted to wear the same fireman getup again this year.

So while Paige headed off to school to count down the minutes until she could come back and get in her costume, Curtis was at home trying to avoid the holiday all together.

I invited Traci and the boys to come to my work to trick or treat around the cubicles. A few minutes before they were to arrive, Traci called to tell me that Curtis was refusing to get in the car.

"Oh, just shove him in there, he'll like it when he gets here," I advised. (Fatherly wisdom.)

She did. And then she called me again from the parking lot. "Curtis is refusing to get out of the car."

Despite my efforts to coax him out with candy and the promise that he wouldn't have to speak to (or look at) anyone, he stood strong in his resistance. So Traci, Curtis, and Tate in his little skeleton onesy turned around and headed back home. 

The evening went a bit better. Curtis agreed to get in his costume (sans hat) for some trick or treat action.

Paige led the way, running from door to door and constantly being amazed by the amount of candy booty. But then things took a turn for the worst. Heading up to another door, she tripped on a step and came up with a pretty bad bloody lip.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" I asked.

Through hiccuping sobs she replied,"I'll...be...okay...[sob, sob]...Let's...keep...trick or treating."

So we carried on, Paige walking somberly but resolutely and Curtis needing to be piggy-backed for most of the night. (It's fun to have a sleepy 30-pounder on your shoulders, banging you in the head with a plastic pumpkin.) 

Another holiday survived. 

Paige's First Piano Recital

I don't think I used to be so gushy. But this a proud parent moment. A couple of years ago, Traci and I were worried that Paige would never stop being so incredibly shy. And now, here she is marching up to the front of the stage for a piano recital (after just three lessons) and bravely (if not a bit quietly) saying, "My name is Paige Sutherland and I will be playing Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." (Traci's sister Makell joins her on the other two songs.)

We couldn't be more proud of her.

Dear Mr. Fish, I Will Eat You Now

The year was 1987. It was Super Bowl Sunday and I was getting ready to cheer on my beloved Denver Broncos as they faced the New York Giants. My mother made halibut for dinner, which was noteworthy because she never cooked fish. Having no prior experience to fish, I ate it.

It was disgusting.

I can still taste the strong fishy flavor--combined with the bitter taste of a 39-20 loss, mixed with the salt of my six-year-old tears--on my tongue.

In the years since, I have avoided fish almost entirely. Until last week.

Much like yoga, I've always thought I should give sushi a try. But I've never been motivated enough to say, "Hey Traci, let's go get some sushi tonight." (Or say, "Let's go to sushi." Why do people "go to" sushi? I'm going to start saying, "Hey, let's go to pasta" or "Let's go to hamburgers.") And Traci would never agree to sushi anyway.

But I have some other friends who can't get enough of the uncooked stuff. So I tagged along.

My first sushi experience started off well enough. I was having a great time at the restaurant, chatting it up, and drinking my orange Fanta. And the something happened.

"What's that fishy smell in here?" I thought. It was, of course, our meal.

I started off cautiously with the California roll. Then I moved on to the Spider roll...and then to the Prozac roll...and then the Xanax roll...and then to all of the other ultra-cool-pharmaceutically-named rolls. I dipped stuff in eel sauce and wasabi sauce and whatever else. And soon I realized I'd already downed like 10 of the things.

Did I like it? No, not really. But I figured if I was going to try it, I better try it.

It wasn't until I was driving home--and thinking it best to roll down the window and get some air--that I realized that was a bit too much to ask of a stomach so unaccustomed to things of the sea. (Especially after the large amounts of deer jerky I'd eaten at lunch, prepared by the guy who said, 'I hope you don't get sick, I've never made deer jerky before.')

But I hung on.

And now I have two memories of fish: the first of three Denver Broncos Super Bowl defeats (which was bad), followed by two Denver Bronco victories (which was good); and a meal that made me a little sick (which was bad), but was accompanied by some delicious orange Fanta and some dear homies (which were both good).

Only four months 'til my birthday lunch at the Chuck a Rama.

Curtis Getting Tough on the Pitch

We have reached the end of Curtis' first season of soccer. I'd say it was a success. He scored a few goals for his team (and a bunch more for the other teams), he got a lot of treats, and he got to finish every bit of running with a little bit of rolling around on the ground.

I got this footage of him during his last game. Watch as he (number 10) shows the little girl on the other team who's boss. (Poor girl. She was pretty much down for the count.)

Desperately Hanging onto Summer

In a last ditch effort to hang on to summer, we headed to St. George this weekend with our friends the Smiths. What more can you ask for than a sunny 85 degrees?

 

And now, back home. Bummer, dude.

Once Again. The Sutherlands, Model of Healthy Eating

Paige: Can I have some salt and vinegar chips with my pancakes?

Me: Of course, sweetie.

Pretty Scary Skeleton

Getting in Touch with My Pelvic Floor

I didn’t even know I had a pelvic floor.

I only made one New Year’s resolution this year: to take a yoga class. Why? I don’t know. Maybe  because we have a gym at my work with free yoga classes. Maybe because I think it’s good to feel like a complete idiot every once in a while.

I did it. I took my first yoga class.

From the first 30 seconds of the class, I realized the biggest challenge would be keeping a straight face. Which was tough, with the instructor saying things like, “Breathe down through your core all the way to your toes, giving added focus to your pelvis. Feel it move. Feel it moving your body.”

I thought yoga was going to be all about stretching and positive thinking. But I soon learned that “plank” position is just a euphemism for “pushup” position, and suddenly I was transported to seventh grade gym class. By the class’ halfway mark, I was already sweating profusely and feeling really bad for whoever was sitting behind me, as my shirt was falling over my head and shorts were going who knows where.

Toward the end, we were sitting cross-legged with a goal of resting our heads on the floor. For those whose bodies were not capable of achieving such a thing, an alternative was offered. Bend as far as you can, and rest your head on a little green foam block. My foam block quickly turned into a seat-filled sponge.

With 15 minutes left in the class, I started thinking I might actually be able to make It to the end (with 30 minutes left, I was really worried that I would have to give up and leave). I was glad I stuck it out, because the last 10 minutes was just lying on our backs with our eyes closed. Sweet.

After the class ended, several of my co-workers/co-yoga-ers asked what I thought of my first experience. With a dazed look on my face, I replied, “I’m not sure what just happened to me.”

Still confused, I walked into the locker room. One glance in the mirror and I noticed something odd. Green letters written backwards on my forehead.  Argh! The foam block.

The next day, I said to one of my friends, “Did you notice the writing on my forehead?”

“Yeah. But I figured you’d had a tough enough time in class that I didn’t need to say anything.”

Namaste.