Paige Bailey, 8 Years Old

For the most part, Traci and I started having kids the same time as the rest of our friends. So, that means our kids have reached milestones at about the time--off to nursery, off to preschool, off to kindergarten. Each of these landmarks have been important for sure, but also incremental and manageable. (Well, off to kindergarten was pretty scary for mom and dad.) Age eight--the one where they get baptized and start making that transition from little kid to big kid--always seemed so far away.

But now it's here.

We are the parents of an eight year old.

Paige is ready to be eight. Actually, I think she'd feel just fine being 13, the way she bosses us around and makes it clear that she knows everything.  She's incredibly smart, often very sweet, and more often very stubborn. And we love her.

Age eight seems like a good time to look back at how she's grown (and to wonder where the time has gone).

After a pretty scary emergency C-section, this little baby came out perfect.

 

At age 1, Paige kind of had the shape of a bowling bowl. (And the hair of Beavis and Butt-head--completely missing on the sides.)

By age two, Paige had inherited her mother's curly hair, which she twirled in her fingers incessantly. 

 

By the time she was three, Paige had become a big sister. (She liked Curtis a lot more then than she does now.)

 

By age four, to her mother's chagrin, the curls started to disappear. 

The five-year-old princess spent her birthday at Disneyland.

When  she was six, Paige had to share the house (and the spotlight) with Curtis and Tate.

 

Age seven was when the teeth started falling out. 

 

And here we are today. We're pretty lucky to have her.

Why I Never Want to Drive the Carpool Again

Yesterday, I had the singular privilege of driving the carpool. I had Curtis and three seven-year-old girls riding with me in the minivan. Within minutes of our departure, they started playing the "raise your hand if..." game. It started like this.

"Raise your hand if you've seen Monsters University."

And, logically, went to this.

"Raise your hand if you've seen Despicable 2."

I wasn't too surprised when it took a more aspirational turn.

"Raise your hand if you wish that you could live at Disneyland."

"Raise your hand if you wish the sky was made out of cotton candy."

Then Curtis added his two cents.

"Raise your hand if you want to punch Santa in the head and take all of his presents." (That's my boy!)

From there, the conversation devolved into the most random collection of thoughts I have ever heard.

"Raise your hand if you want a giant red star to explode and destroy the entire earth."

"Raise your hand if you want California to slide into the ocean." (From the "red star" girl.)

"Raise your hand if your great grandpa is Russell M. Nelson."

"Raise your hand if you want to kiss Abraham Lincoln." (From Curtis.)

"Raise your hand if your mom voted for Mitt Romney."

"Raise your hand if Barack Obama made your dad lose his job."

"Raise your hand if you want to become the president so you can make everyone in the world kill themselves." (More "red star." What are they reading at that house?)

Does anyone know where you get one of those limousine windows that's between the driver and the backseat? I'd like to get one installed in the minivan.

Monop-you-ly

Dad

Here's the problem with cleaning out the basement during daylight hours. Your kids wander down there to see what you're up to. When they see boxes full of stuff, they of course want to see what's in there, and then instantly think they need to get it out of the box, take it back upstairs, and make things messier than they were before you started cleaning in the first place. 

A couple of weeks ago, Curtis saw a box in the basement labeled "board games." He implored me to get it down and reveal the contents. They were all grownup games--Scattergories, Cranium, etc.--so I didn't think he'd be too interested. But one caught his attention. My most loathed game. Monolopy. (Or monop-you-ly, as Curtis calls it.)

"Dad, let's play." 

"Sorry, buddy," I said. "If we get that out while Tate's around, you know he'll destroy everything."

"Can we play it when he takes his nap?"

"Sounds like a great idea." It did sound like a great idea. (Because Tate hasn't started to grow out of taking naps, to Traci's endless chagrin.)

Every few days, Curtis would bring it up again. 

"Dad, let's play Monopoly."

"We will...during Tate's nap."

This actually worked for a couple of weeks. Until Curtis had finally had enough. 

"Dad, I want to play NOW. "

So I gave in. I thought he'd be bored by the time we got the game set up (which takes forever, one of the many things I hate about Monopoly). Nope. He loved it. (Even with the non-napping Tate destroying everything.) 

Now we have to play it every day, multiple times a day. 

From now on, I'm only cleaning the basement after the kids are asleep. 

If You Need Me, I'll be Sleeping in My Shed

"It'll take a Saturday." That's what the girl at the Lifetime store says when I ask how long it should take to assemble the shed I was about to purchase.

Before I let her swipe my credit card, I probably should have rephrased the question--"How long will it take me to assemble this shed?"

If she could have seen the future, she would have replied:

"It will take me 15 minutes, with the help of a forklift, to get the shed loaded in the back of the truck that you borrowed from your dad..."

"Your tailgate won't close, so you'll be nervous about driving home, so you won't take the freeway, and it will take you like an hour to get back home..."

"It will take you a couple of trips to Lowe's to buy wood and gravel to build a base for the shed (only to give in and just decide to put the stupid thing directly on the ground..."

"Then it'll finally be time for that "Saturday," so you'll have to invite your brother-in-law over to help you (he put his together all by himself in an evening)..."

"It will be going pretty well, but then he'll have to leave for his kid's football game..."

"And then your parents will come over to help. Your mom will see you taking pictures and threaten 'If you put this on your blog...'"

"The pieces will only almost-fit and it will be a hugely, hugely frustrating experience, but you'll get so close to being done...and then run out of daylight..."

"And then you'll have to wait until Monday and the last piece won't fit and you'll run out of daylight again..."

"And you won't be able to stop thinking about what in the world you're doing wrong..."

"And your brother-in-law will come over again and notice you forgot a piece from page 8 of the 150 million-page instruction book..."

"But he'll know how to fix stuff..."

"And you'll finally get it done..."

"And notice that it sure looks a lot smaller than you thought it'd be..."

But instead, the girl at the register says, "It'll take a Saturday."

And I fall for it.

Held For Ransom...By a Five-Year-Old

Curtis hates sleeping in his bed. Paige was sick the other night, so he jumped at the chance to sleep on the couch in the family room downstairs. (Who could blame him? He sleeps on the bottom bunk. I wouldn't want to be in Paige's splash zone, either.)

Now he doesn't want to go back upstairs.

Me: Curtis, you need to go back in your bed tonight.

Curtis: No.

I left it that.

Five minutes later...

Curtis: Do you know when I'm going to sleep in my bed again?

Me: When?

Curtis: Never.

Two minutes later...

Curtis: Do you know what you'd have to do to get me to sleep in my bed?

Me: What?

Curtis: Give me five dollars.

Me: [No response]

Curtis: And I want it in one dollars. Five of them. Or a dollar bill that's a five dollar bill.

Me: [Silence.]

Two minutes later...

Curtis: And I won't take coins. It's got to be dollars.

One minute later...

Curtis: And if you don't have dollars, I'll just take your wallet.

That's when I walked away.

I don't negotiate with terrorists.

I still have my five dollars.

Curtis is asleep on the couch downstairs.

Trip to Jurassic Park

For months, we'd planned to take our kids to Dinosaur Land over UEA weekend. There was just one problem. Dinosaur Land is technically called Dinosaur National Monument. And as we all know, our beloved Senator Mike Lee decided to close down all national parks in order to prove to President Obama that Americans shouldn't have healthcare coverage or access to fake dinosaurs. Or something like that.

Right after we officially decided to pull the plug on the trip, the government--and the park--reopened. But it was too late for us to turn back. Luckily, we had a backup plan.

Instead of driving three hours to Vernal and staying overnight, we just hopped in the car and drove 45 minutes to the Dinosaur Park in Ogden.

It was a perfect fall day for looking at giant dinosaur statues (surrounded by blowup Halloween decorations), digging for bones, and playing on the Jurassic playground.

And if that wasn't enough, we were able to eat dinner with our Dutch friends, the Koots, on our way home. They made us delicious pannekoeken. These Dutch pancakes are superior to the American kind because they can be filled with cheese, or apples, or ham, or whatever. Curtis topped his cheese pancake with dark chocolate syrup and whipped cream. I ate my ham pancake straight up. Dee-lish.

Sorry, Mike Lee. You can't hold the Sutherlands down.

Another Season of Soccer

I didn't mind coaching Curtis' soccer team last season. But since I'm still finding my place at New Job, I decided I'd just be a bystander this go round. 

It just didn't work out that way. 

"Organization night" (which is always highly disorganized) happens a couple of days before the first game of the season. The kids meet their coach and get their uniforms (the most important part of the entire season), and the parents pass around the treat sign-up sheet. 

When we showed up at organization night, we didn't see any coach or any uniforms, just a bunch of parents looking awkwardly at each other. After a few minutes, someone from the rec center came over and said, "Uh, are any of you the coach?" 

Silence.

"Yeah, we had a guy say he'd be the coach, but he's obviously not here. I've tried to call him like a hundred times and he never answers or calls me back. So does anyone else want to be the coach?"

Silence. 

Everyone looks awkwardly at the ground. Since I was the only dad there (not that it takes a dad to be a coach, just ask my own coach/mother), and one of the only folks that spoke English as a first language, I volunteered. 

Today was the last game of the season. Curtis had another good year. It was a little harder to score goals with actual goalies (there are no goalies in the Pre-K league), but he still managed to be quite the little Cristiano Ronaldo (just with more army rolling; Curtis spends more time diving and rolling than any kid on the field). 

Because it was the last game, I figured we needed some action shots. Traci was working today, so I had to sneak some shots while I was coaching. As I was running down the field with the team, I took. Curtis, the boy who hates pictures, was not amused. 

At this point he turned and said, "Dad, what are you doing?"

Every kid loves to be the goalie. Not only do you get to touch the ball with your hands, but you get to wear this cool dress.

I finally got a great action shot without Curtis noticing; but I blew it with my fat finger

i tried again, but Curtis was not having it

Maybe we'll have better luck with pictures next year.

The Best Part of General Conference

Young little families are supposed to make traditions, right? For the second straight year, we decided to spend the two hours between the Sunday sessions of General Conference walking around Silver Lake at Brighton. We figured it would be the perfect time to see the fall leaves in Big Cottonwood Canyon and also give us a chance to enjoy the mountains for the last time before winter.

Once again it was a minor disaster. 

Last year, we left sunny and warm Salt Lake City only to arrive at a Brighton that it was much colder than we had expected--or dressed for. But this year, we were ready. We got all bundled up and loaded into the van. 

Curt was upset about something to do with his gloves, so he screamed, whined, and cried the entire trip up the mountain. Once we got there, he was fine. And, as it turned out, we didn't need all the warm clothes anyway. The temperature was really nice, but there was quite a bit of snow on the ground. 

That was great news for Tate and Curtis, who were ecstatic about throwing snowballs. The only problem was that a warm day, combined with melting snow, equals a muddy mess. This was reason enough for Paige to be upset the entire time we were there.

Grumpy Paige, grumpy Curtis, muddy Tate (who couldn't manage to stay upright on the icy paths), and hungry parents made for a great trip. 

Disgruntled family time. An annual tradition.

Here are some pictures of us pretending to have a good time.

Curtis, refusing to smile

Tate was the happiest of the bunch

Paige, refusing to have any fun

Smile, Curtis. I'm gonna take a picture of us.

October Boys

Today Curtis and I worked on fielding ground balls for the first time. 

It's good to be a dad. 

We Raise Healthy Children

We've always had trouble with Paige and food. At any given time, there's only about three things that she's willing to eat. Usually it's nuggets, pizza (but only gross pizza Little Caesars or Totino's; I brought home The Pie the other day and she refused to eat it), and cottage cheese. But she's never had trouble with candy. 

This is her creation from our last trip to Yogurtland. Cheesecake yogurt, covered in gummy worms and Reese's Pieces. She ate every bite. 

We're good parents. 

First Trip to the Conference Center

For this year's regional conference, our stake was invited to the Conference Center. I took Paige and Curtis and Traci stayed home with monster Tate (or rather went to the stake center where he could do less damage). Our kids had never been inside before. They seemed to be impressed, first by the size of the auditorium and later, when Curtis conveniently needed to go by the bathroom, by the general echo-ey-ness of the halls.   

After we left, I asked Curtis, "So, what did you think of the Conference Center?"

"It was boring," he replied. 

It was kind of boring. But most educational experiences usually are. 

We stopped by the State Capitol after. They were much more impressed.

When we walked inside, Paige gasped," Wow, somebody really rich must live here."

Even Curtis enjoyed it.

Two Months of New Job + Can I Borrow a Spoon?

I've officially been at new job for just over two months now. Things are going well. I like the people I work with and I'm starting to find my way around--both literally and figuratively. I'm no longer getting lost on my way back to my car (but still sometimes on my way to different conference rooms around the building) and my job tasks are becoming more clear. But it's still hard. I still have no idea what I'm doing a good chunk of the time and I definitely miss my friends at Insurance.

Speaking of Insurance, I had lunch with the old crew a couple of weeks ago. I told them about some of the little things that are different about my new job.

Me: They have a lunch room, but no plates or utensils like they do here.

Them: So what do you do when you bring lunch from home?

Me: Well, you bring your own utensils. Which is fine. Unless you forget. Which I do.

Them: Hmm.

The next week, one of my Insurance friends came to lunch at my office. We ate in the break room.

Friend: [Dumping a pile of the plastic on the table] I brought you some utensils.

Me: Thank you.

We left the utensils on the table while we went to the microwave. When we came back, an unfamiliar coworker was waiting for us.

Coworker: Uh, hi. Um, I brought clam chowder for lunch today. But I...I...didn't bring a spoon.

Me: Do you need a spoon, my friend?

Coworker: Yes, please. Thank you. Thank you.

New job. Things are different.

McDonalds' Deepest Secret Revealed

We were at McDonalds when I overheard Paige telling Curtis something very important.

"Curtis, do you want to know what the secret ingredient in McDonalds' fries is?"

Curtis, intrigued, nodded his head.

 Paige leaned in close and whispered, "It's potatoes."

Curtis' eyes got big, and he responded, "Whoa."

Sorry, McDonalds. The code has been cracked.

Costco Exacts its Revenge

I admit it. I'm a horrible father.

Going to Costco with three kids is incredibly difficult. Paige likes to wander off. Curtis likes to get in and out of the cart about a thousand times. Tate only likes to get out of the cart and is happy to jump right out if I'm not paying attention.

The only way to have anything close to a good experience at Costco is to promise the kids a treat at the end--a berry smoothie.

Unlike Traci, I make the kids share a smoothie. I do this for two reasons: 1) I'm cheap and 2) I don't think they each need their own giant cup of sugar.

This inevitably leads to more fighting and bad behavior than if I would have given them any treat at all. I know this.

Last week, Costco karma caught up with me.

While Traci was at work, I took the kids to Costco by myself. We only purchased two items: a $36 pack of diapers and one berry smoothie. (As usual, lots of fighting ensued.)

About two days later, it was time to bust out the new diapers. I couldn't find them in Tate's room, so I checked the van. Nope, not there. They also weren't in the closet or the kitchen or the garage. Where were they? I'm pretty sure they were in the in the bottom of the cart...in the parking lot...at the blasted Costco.

You win, Costco, you win. Next time, I'll spring for a second $1.45 smoothie. (Tate still has to share.)

What Makes Reading Hard?

Without any help from us, Paige started reading when she was three. When she brought home her schoolwork today, we noticed a worksheet called "Background Survey On Reading." It's a little survey to score your confidence in reading.

There are questions like "place an X on the face that shows how you feel about reading" (Paige X'd the smiley face) and "what is your favorite book for reading by yourself?" (Magic Tree House.)

I loved Paige's answer to "What makes reading hard for you?" I'm sure some kids wrote, "It's boring" or "There are too many long words."

Not Paige.

Her response? "If the pages are ripped out."

She's right. That does make reading hard.

And Now We Have a Kindergartner

Today Curtis became a kindergartner.

Because he goes to the afternoon class, I wasn't around for the first day drop off. Here's the report I got from Traci.

Traci: Curtis, are you nervous?

Curtis: No.

Traci: Are you excited?

Curtis: No.

Traci: Are you scared?

Curtis: No.

Traci: Do you think it will be fun?

Curtis: No.

Despite his (always) stoic exterior, it sounds like he went into the class, sat down on the rug, and got right to being a kindergartner.

(Traci then went back to car and cried a little bit.)

When I talked to him tonight, he gave me a pretty succinct review. Story time. Recess. Puzzles. And a treat consisting of both gummy bears and a cookie. Plus, he met two friends--Jordan and Jack (or Jake, he couldn't quite remember which).

Sounds like a pretty good day.

Paige Starts 2nd Grade (and It's No Big Deal)

The first day of school is hard...for parents.

I remember being nervous the day Paige went off to preschool (looking back at the photo, I can't believe how little she was). Would she be scared? Would she listen to her teacher? Would she be nice to the other kids?

Sending her off to kindergarten (on the bus!) was even harder. How would she do at lunchtime? Who would she play with at recess? Would she scared to be on the bus by herself?

Then she tested into the advanced learner program for first grade, so we sent her to a new school. How would she do with the tougher curriculum? Would she still be smart when surrounded by a bunch of other little nerds?

Of course, there was probably never a need to worry. She loves school. She's smart. She's made friends. She's a nerdy teacher's pet.

So this year, I didn't worry. I just gave her a kiss and sent her on her way. She'll be just fine.

Now Curtis on the other hand...he starts kindergarten on Wednesday. I'm nervous. 

Real Navajo Tacos with a Real Navajo

When Steve, my Navajo friend, told me that he'd come to my house and teach my family how to make real Navajo tacos, I thought he was just kidding. No. He was was serious. Very serious. 

He came over--arms filled with all of the necessary supplies--and not only told us how it was done, but showed us. And we weren't allowed to just sit back and watch. We had to get in there and get our hands dirty. 

I thought the kids would act like they do when the home teachers come--stick around for 30 seconds and then disappear into the basement. Nope. Steve totally kept their attention as he walked us through the intricacies of not just kneading the dough, but thinking positive thoughts while kneading the dough. The kids were enraptured. 

We've known for some time that Paige is less of a worker and more of a manager. She didn't want to get her hands messy, so instead of doing any actual cooking, she spent at least a half hour talking with Steve about possible price points for her eventual Navajo taco stand. (Steve: "I think you could charge $2 for a piece of fry bread; $3 if you add a Shasta and an Otterpop." Paige: "Uh, yeah. But if you only charge $1, more people would want to buy it.")

Curtis, who never talks to anyone, spent the whole night chatting with Steve about the dough, and basketball, and the rules to playing HORSE. Of course, that doesn't mean he'll smile for a picture--even when he's surrounded by a mountain of fry bread that he made himself. 

It was a pretty great evening with Steve and Tami. (Before they came over, Curtis asked Traci, "Mom, who's Tom and Jerry?" Traci replied, confused, "Uh, a cartoon cat and mouse." Curtis shook his head. "No, the Tom and Jerry that are coming over tonight." The light bulb went on for Traci. "Oh, not Tom and Jerry. Steve and Tami.")

We're lucky to have such great friends.

Little Brothers are Weird

Paige spent the afternoon at one of her friends' house. 

Here's the what she told Curtis about it while we were in the van. 

"Curtis, you'd really like Amy's little brother because he's five like you. And he's really weird like you."

"But I think you're even weirder."

Curtis then smacked himself in the face. 

I guess he agreed. 

New Job

The view from my office window

I've officially completed three weeks at my new job. Things are going pretty well so far.  A few observations:

• The dress is much more casual than I'm used to. Shorts, flip-flops, and baseball hats abound. I walked by the CEO yesterday. He was wearing a polo shirt, shorts, and some fluorescent green basketball shoes.
• Every afternoon at 2:00 is "stretchy stretchy" time. One of the finance ladies stands in the cubicle aisle and leads everyone in about 10 minutes of stretching. (I heard she's certified in "desk-er-cise." Now that I know that's a thing, I feel I have found my new calling.)
• Speaking of cubicles, Marketing doesn't have them. Our desks are all out in the open. It's going to take a while to get used to everyone being able to see what I'm doing on the computer all day. 
• There are lots of bald guys in my department, so I fit right in. 
• I'm not at young as a I used to be. When I started at the Community College, I was a baby--just 23. When I started at Insurance, I was a 26-year-old kid. Now I'm 33. Yesterday, a 25-year-old was telling me why he likes the band Girl Talk (who I hate). "They're really indicative of our--" he looks at me and rephrases,"I mean my generation." I'm old.

I'm still missing my Insurance homies--we went to lunch on Thursday and it was hard not to go back to the office with them--but I'm hoping for the best. 

No Love for the Soccer Coach

Though he foughtand fought it, Curtis now loves tee ball. He’s already told me he’s going to play again in August…and September…and October…and on and on. (We had to break the bad news that you can’t actually play tee ball in December in Utah.)

I’ve been enjoying tee ball as well. After coaching Curtis’ last soccer team, it’s kind of nice to just sit on the sideline and watch.

I didn’t decide to coach the soccer team because of some burning desire to coach. I just figured it was my turn to help. Coaching 3-5 year olds is no easy task. Especially when 8 of the 11 kids are three-year-old girls who are playing soccer for the first time.

Most of my energy was spent just trying to keep the kids on the field. Here are some typical conversations:

“Teacher,” (a lot of the kids called me teacher) “Can I get a drink?”

“Sure, just remember to come back, okay?”

“Teacher, I want to tell my mom something.”

“Okay, but don’t forget to come back.”

They never came back.

I’d usually start each half with all 11 kids on the field (you’re only supposed to play six at a time) because within the first few minutes, half of them would disappear.

I’m sure I wasn’t the best coach in the world, but I tried hard and I think I did a pretty good job. Apparently, Curtis didn’t agree.

I made it to all of the games but one, which I had to miss for Paige’s first grade graduation. I asked my friend Bert to fill in for me.

He didn’t want to, but I told him I really needed him and all he had to do was show up. The other coach could take care of the rules and the stopwatch and all that stuff. He just needed to keep track of the kids and maybe blow the whistle when the ball went out of bounds.

Through all of the shuffling of getting Curtis to the game and Paige to the graduation, I forgot to give Bert the whistle. Oh, well. He’d be fine.

The graduation was shorter than I anticipated and I was able to make it to Curtis’ game by half-time.

“How’s everything going?” I asked Bert.

“Good. But the other coach is a substitute, too. Neither of us had a stopwatch or even a whistle.”

“Uh, sorry about that.”

After the game, I asked Curtis how Bert was as a coach.

“Good,” he replied.

“How’s dad as a coach?” I asked.

“Good.”

“Well, who’s a better coach, dad or Bert?”

“Bert.”

"What?!” I said, louder than I meant to. “Why?”

“Bert didn’t even need a whistle.”

Why'd I forget that stupid whistle?

Old Job, New Job

From my last TV appearance as the SelectHealth media guy

Last week, after six-and-a-half years, I said goodbye to SelectHealth.

And it was really hard.

I didn't grow up having big dreams of working for an insurance company someday. It just happened. Back in 2006, I was happily working at Salt Lake Community College when Traci started job searching for me. (SLCC was a great gig, but it didn't pay very much and I had one of those as-long-as-there's-funding jobs.) To appease my wife, I filled out some applications. I was actually pretty surprised when SelectHealth called me for an interview.

I still remember what I wore for the first interview--a pair of slacks and a dress shirt that I bought at the H&M in London, that I didn't tuck in. Sitting in a room of shirts and ties, I realized I may be a bit under dressed (at the College, I got to wear shorts and flip flops--I thought I was dressed up!). But somehow I got hired anyway.

On my first day, I was introduced to the world of corporate cubicles. I sat at my little desk, surrounded by my three little walls and immediately felt completely alone. In the early afternoon, Traci called me. I hunched over the phone and quietly whispered, "Hello?"

"How's your first day going?"

"Uh, it's okay."

"What? I can't hear you. Why are you whispering."

"I'm in a really tiny cubicle and everyone can hear me."

I was surrounded by strangers who I didn't really want to talk to and who certainly didn't care to talk to me. And it sucked. I wanted to walk right out the door and back to the Community College, where I was happy.

But it got better. And I made friends. And then I made more friends. And more. And I had fun and then LOTS of fun.

Over the years at SelectHealth, in spite of it being a stuffy insurance company, I had the chance to do lots of cool stuff. Like bringing a cartoon tooth to life, and writing and performing a song for a video game (oh, how my coworkers loathed the sounds coming out of my cubicle), and going to galas and sporting events and pretending to be a cook on TV.

Most of all, I made so many great friends. The kind of friends that install your ceiling fan during their lunch break, or fix your car in the freezing cold, or play with your kids at the park, or go see the Twilight movies with you at the dollar theater, or let you sleep in their New York City studio apartment, or who become such an important part of your life.

Saying goodbye to those friends sucks.

When I first told my team that I had accepted a job at CHG, I could barely get the words out of my mouth, I was so choked up. Then, for the three weeks leading up to my last day, I worried about how I'd say goodbye without completely breaking down.

And then the last day came. There happened to be a department-wide training and the office was pretty empty. All of the sudden, I was thinking that I could just sneak out quietly (and tear-free) without anyone even noticing.

But that didn't happen. In the afternoon, I took some boxes out to my car (there's nothing worse than having to make your final exit whilst juggling all of your crap). When I came back, all of my homies were gathered around my desk. They gave me a slow-clap and sang me a somber rendition of the SelectHealth farewell tune "Happy, Happy Last Day" (which is pretty similar to "Happy, Happy Birthday").

And then there were hugs. Lots of wonderful hugs. And well wishes. And goodbyes.

And then it was time to go. Time to move on from the place that was there when we bought our first house, and when we welcomed Curtis into the world, and brought Tate home from the hospital, and experienced all the first years of this parenthood stuff.

Leaving is hard.

--

I'm now almost a week into my new job. The people have all been nice--when I showed up to my desk the first day, they'd already turned my desk into a makeshift music shrine (complete with pictures of Justin Bieber, Daft Punk, and the Ramones). They took me out to lunch and made me the star of the show. But it's still pretty lonely. It's hard to start over.

Luckily, I know it will get better.

A Little Rain Can't Hold Us Down

Remember when I had that wacky idea to explore the wonders of Utah? Yeah, we're still working on that. Yesterday, along with our friends the Bawdens, we headed to Bear Lake for our first Utah adventure of the season (and yes, I know that Bear Lake is mostly in Idaho).

I haven't been to Bear Lake since I went to scout camp at Camp Hunt when I was 12. To earn our cycling merit badge, our troop went on a 50-mile ride around the lake. The only problem? It rained. The. Entire. Eight. Hours.

There must be something with me and Bear Lake and the rain. When we left Salt Lake it was drizzling. By the time we hit Odgen, it was a torrential downpour. When we finally made it to the North Beach, it was still raining.

But after three hours of driving, we couldn't just turn around and go back home. So we put on our swimsuits, put up our canopy,  and prayed for sunshine.

And it came.

Despite some sporadic showers throughout the afternoon, we had beautiful weather for a day on the beach (and enough fun to feed an army).

Here's the proof:

Not only did the kids LOVE it (and get completely worn out--hooray!), but the drive from Logan to Bear Lake was absolutely gorgeous. 

We couldn't have hoped for a better day trip. 

The Trouble with Kids and Passwords

Got this text from Traci:

"Currently having drama because Curtis made up a password and it's 'Paige stinks.'"

I couldn't help but laugh.

When I talked to Traci a while later I asked her what this password was for anyway (I was thinking it was for the computer or the iPod or something).

"Curtis was putting his leg up to block Paige's way," Traci explained. "He wouldn't let her pass unless she used the password."

That's when I laughed even harder.

Baseball Blues

Curtis hates pretty much everything. Except that he doesn't.

He loves football, for example, but if you say to him, "Hey Curt, do you want to go to the Blaze game?" he'll not only say that he doesn't want to go but rather "I never want to go to the Blaze game. Ever." After being rather stoic about it and then even aggressive (one of his favorite things is to crumple stuff up, like football tickets, right in front of your face in dramatic fashion), he'll usual give in and go. And then have a great time. (Though he'll never let you see him smile.)

He also loves playing baseball. But after hinting around about him playing in the summer tee ball league, we knew that he was not going to participate of his own free will. So we pulled out one of our favorite parenting tools: trickery.

We decided we simply wouldn't tell him that he was playing tee ball until we showed up for his first game. We were about a day away from a winning strategy when our plan was foiled by his cousin and teammate saying, "I'll see you at tee ball tomorrow, Curtis."

We thought he would go into his usual rage. But it was way worse. He started crying. Real tears. Real enormous, heart wrenching tears. He told us he was too scared to play tee ball. And despite our best efforts, he was unconsable.

We finally had him calmed down by bedtime. But then around 10:30 p.m. he came wandering back downstairs. "Dad, I'm scared about tee ball."

"What are you scared about?"

"I'm scared about the pitching."

"Well, it's your lucky day. In tee ball there is no pitching. You just hit it off the tee."

His eyes lit up.

"Well, maybe I'll play tee ball."

By this morning he was 100% onboard. And when we showed up at the field and he saw that his uniform was a Salt Lake Bees hat and t-shirt, he was nearly ecstatic (in a Curtis sort of way).

He played and had a great time. Then the first thing he wanted to do when he got home was to play baseball in the backyard. I happily obliged.

When we were in the backyard he said to me, "Which do you think is my favorite sport, Dad? Soccer or tee ball?"

"Is it tee ball?"

"Yes! But my favorite sports are soccer and tee ball!"

It was a good day to be a sports dad.