Paige's Packing List

We're heading to our ranch tomorrow for the fist time this year. Paige made a list of all the things she'll need while she's there. 

Wax On, Wax Off

We've always had a rough time trying to get Curtis to go to bed. It's not unusual to see him wandering around at 10:00, 10:30, 11:00 at night. But finally, a few months ago, things started to get better. We'd let him play the iPad in his bed for a couple of minutes and then he'd go right to sleep. Miracle.

But now that summer's here, he's started wandering again and we're back to square one. Whenever he comes out of his room, he always has a demand.

Me: Curtis, you need to go back to bed.

Curtis: Not unless you make me a floor bed (meaning let him sleep on our floor).

Or

Curtis: Not unless you let me watch or show.

Or

Curtis: I'm not ever going to bed until it's morning.

We've heard each of these requests a million times. But last night it was something new.

Me: Curtis, you need to go to bed.

Curtis: No. Not until you watch Karate Kid with me for 10 minutes.

Karate Kid?! Well, now we have a deal.

3:1 Kids to Dad

Pictures have the magical ability to capture a moment--like these three minutes of bliss on the little train at the Bees game. 

But they suck at telling the before--like when we were standing in line for AN HOUR while I held 30lb-Tate and he kept smacking me and saying "Want. Ride. Train."--or the after when we were finally back at our seats and Curtis was mad that I wouldn't buy him a $6 lemonade so he decided to launch the lid to his water bottle into the crowd 15 rows ahead of us, followed by me saying,"That's it. We're going home,"

When will I learn that I can't really take all three of my kids to a sporting event all by myself?

Their Father's Fantastic Genes

Traci calls me on the phone and says the following:

Curtis is upstairs on our bed, watching a Sports Center thing about Tim Tebow. 

Paige is downstairs listening to Daft Punk on the computer. 

I'm glad that I have absolutely no influence on our children. 

No Longer a First Grader

We went to Paige's end-of-school-year program the other night. The kids sang and danced and, to her ultimate delight, Paige's class got to tell knock-knock jokes. (Paige is the queen of Laffy Taffy-esque zingers, always making up her instant classics, e.g., "What kind of ghost does a football squad like? Team spirit.) I loved watching Paige sing her little heart out (she's the kid that sings about 20 decibels louder than everyone else), but my favorite part was at the end. 

The theme of program was "Because I Knew You." Each of the first graders wrote a little paragraph on the theme. They were hanging on the back wall. Paige wrote an ode to Curtis: 

"Because I knew Curtis I can always know when to laugh. It makes your life a more joyful thing. Laughing makes others lives more joyful and it makes you happy. Because I knew Curtis I am filled with laughter."

Pretty sweet. (When we read it to Curtis, he simply shrugged his shoulders, as he tends to do.)

She also made this self-portrait, holding her favorite book, which is (apparently) High Tide in Hawaii. 

--

We were happy when we found that Paige had tested into the Advanced Learner program after kindergarten. But we were also a little apprehensive about sending her to a new school.

We shouldn't have been nervous. She loved first grade and it's been good for her to be surrounded by other little nerds who love reading and spelling and telling their parents that they are smarter than them (probably true, but still not okay to say).

We only had one little problem. Always worried about Paige's social world, I tend to ask her more about who she sat by at lunch than what she's been learning in class. In the winter, I could tell something was up.

"Paige, who'd you sit by at lunch today?"

"Um, I don't...exactly...know."

"You don't know who you sat by? Who did you play with at recess?"

"I mostly just played by...myself."

[The sound of my heart breaking] "Really? Why?"

"I...just wanted to."

"So what did you do exactly?"

"I just played in the snow."

"With the other kids?"

"No. Just by myself."

We went through this for several weeks. She went out of her way to tell me that it was by choice that she was all by herself, and that she really didn't mind being alone...and that she didn't really want me to keep bugging her about it.

We couldn't tell if she was being left out or she'd been mean to the other kids or she was being weird to be weird. But I didn't like it one bit. Traci and I talked about all different approaches we could take to the problem--from calling other kids' moms to encourage their kids to play with Paige to sitting at recess with her so she wouldn't be alone. We finally decided to talk about it with her teacher. (Which was the approach we should have taken in the first place.) But right as we did, the problem corrected itself. She was back to playing with friends and we haven't had any problems since. (We never found out what the original problem was, though.)

It's been a good year. Though she (regularly) drives us crazy, we've got a pretty great, smart, beautiful little girl.

A Boy and His Truck

Don't think for a second that Tate chooses to drive a truck because it's cool or trendy. No, my friend, it's about functionality. He was adamant that we load his trike in the back (which is nearly the size of the truck). 'Cause that what trucks are for. Hauling stuff.

Curtis: Officially a Preschool Graduate

Big day for little Curt. Preschool graduation. For years, I've been writing about Curtis refusing to smile. Today was no exception.

During the little graduation program, the kids were giggling, and singing, and doing the actions for the songs. Not Curtis. That's not the kind of guy he is. 

Here's a little sample of his performance: (This is Curtis as his most enthusiastic. Seriously):



At the end, the teacher showed a little slideshow, including a few closeups of each of the kids. When Curtis' picture came up she said, "Here's Curtis. You can almost see his teeth. Believe me, that took a lot of work."


Traci kept commentating about how fast the two years of preschool has flown by. Curt does seem like a big kid, but when I think of him starting kindergarten in the fall, I'd like to slow down the clock a little bit.

Despite his stony exterior, he's really enjoyed preschool. His teacher is so sweet with him. At parent/teacher conference she said, "Curtis is a very confident boy and when he makes a decision, he sticks to it. These are very good traits." You'd think she was just using euphemisms for "stubborn," but she's from the Eastern Bloc--where Curtis' iron will really would take him far.

Smiles or no, we're sure proud of the little guy.

Memorial Day

On Memorial Day, we hit the road and headed to an exotic Utah locale: Ogden. Here are a few pics from our trip to the Hill Aerospace Museum with our Dutch friends the Koots. (The museum was way better than I had expected. Highly recommended.)

Medals

My work got a Best of State award the other day. Traci and I went to the award dinner. It was a swanky, black tie affair. It kinda felt like the Utah version of the Grammys or something with its red carpet, swing band, and giant 10-foot-high rotating Best of State statue. But instead of real celebs, we got Mark Eaton and Breinholt. A nice evening, nevertheless.


I came home, wearing the award medal around my neck. This really intrigued five-year-old Curtis.

"What's that, Dad?"

"A medal that my work won."

"It looks kinda...itchy. You should take it off."

It wasn't. But I did.

One second later, he had it around his neck. Well played, Curtis.

"What's this guy holding," he asked, looking at the medal. "Is it a basketball?"

"No. I don't think so."

"Do you wish it was a basketball?"

"Uh, I guess?"

"You love basketball, dad."

That's right. I do. I guess I need to figure out a way to win a basketball medal.

Single Dad: Day Four - The Finale

Last day. Just one final hurdle: church.

I got up, got everyone bathed and dressed. I even did Paige's hair (okay, I combed it and then but a headband in it--close enough). We were all set and ready to go.

"Kids, get in the van!" I hollered. (I couldn't believe how smoothly this was all going. We were going to be early!) I had just overlooked one thing. Curtis, of course, had no idea where his shoes were. Blargh.

After a few minutes of digging, we found them. We weren't early, but we were on time--still an impressive feat.

Things went well in sacrament meeting until Tate discovered the container of baby formula tucked away in the bottom of our church bag.

"I want milk, dad."

"Tate, we're not going to have that kind of milk, buddy. After the sacrament we can go to the drinking fountain."

"I want milk."

"Shh, buddy. We have to wait."

"I WANT MILK!!!!!!!!!!!!"

Tate then grabbed the container, pulled it opened with his teeth and POOF! A cloud of baby powder went up in the air and landed strategically on my crotch. Wonderful.

But we made it through. After church, Tate took a nap and Paige and Curtis helped me clean up the house for mom's impending arrival.
--
We were reunited with Traci a little after 5:00. The kids were excited to see her, but they couldn't possibly have been as excited as I was. I am a lucky, lucky man.

Single Dad: Day 3

I was too tired to write last night.

Day number three started pretty much where day two ended up--fighting with Paige. Our kids do chores on Saturday mornings. Done without complaining, this takes about two minutes. I spent a good hour-plus arguing with Paige about her chores, then about getting dressed, and then about how she didn't want to go to Curtis' soccer game ("Dad, do you really want to go to Curtis' game in the rain? Do you want your children to get cold and sick? Do you want your children to get sick, dad?).

Luckily, she cheered up when she saw her friend Mackenzie. (Otherwise, I may have left her at the soccer field.)

A little rain didn't hold Curtis down. He put on his jacket and went to work, scoring four goals. (It helps that it's a Pre-K league, ages 3-5. A five-year-old, Curtis is having a heyday.)

With the morning drama out of the way, we were able to have a pretty nice afternoon. I guess all of the horribleness of assembling the grill was worth it because we had a nice little hot dog picnic in the backyard. Paige and Curtis had a great time playing with the maple helicopter leaves.

After dinner, we picked up Traci's dad and headed to the Utah Blaze game. Paige and Curtis love going to the games. Though he usually does okay-ish, I don't take Tate if I have the choice. Obviously, with Traci out of town, I didn't have the choice.

We'd been at the game about five seconds when Tate said, "Go home, Dad." Thanks to some popcorn, he made it through the first quarter. But, as tends to happen, all that popcorn made him thirsty. He grabbed Grandpa's water bottle and spilled a bunch of it down the front of his shirt. He didn't like that too much. So he spent the second quarter bare chest-ting it. (Which is totally legit at a Blaze game; in fact, it usually gets you on the Jumbotron.)

At half-time, we discovered the playground in the upper level concourse. Filled to overflowing with kids, it was a death-defying experience. But it kept Tate entertained for another quarter, which was all I could have hoped for. I didn't get to see much football, but Tate was happy on the playground and Paige and Curtis were happy watching the game with grandpa. A good night.

I got home, dumped the kids in bed, and called it a night. Three days down, one to go.

Single Day: Day Two

We got off to a rough start this morning. No preschool on Fridays, so I only had to worry about getting Paige ready for school. Things were going smoothly until I told her she couldn't wear jelly princess sandals because it was PE day. Major meltdown.

A few of the hits:

"Dad, you want me to wear those shoes?"
"You're not the boss of me!"
"Fine! I'll do it your way. Is that what you want?!"
"You want me to wear these big shoes that no one will think are cute?!"

This continued on for the length of the ride to school. When I let her out of the car, I said, "I hope you have a good day at school."

"I won't because I have to wear these shoes! Hmmph."

The next few hours were much better.

After a successful trip to Cookie Cutters, (notice that though the haircut may change, the expression remains the same) we headed to the park with Grandma.

The boys had a fabulous time. They ran up, and rolled down, the hill so many times that Tate took a three-and-a-half hour nap when he got home. And Curtis, who's not a napper, fell asleep for two.

And then Paige came back home from school.

She was done being mad about the shoes and even apologized for how she'd acted (with was accompanied by "I'm really good at apologizing"). Within 10 minutes of being home, however, she was at it again. What started with her being upset that Curtis and I were not playing basketball "right," morphed into two hours of:

"Dad, you don't appreciate me."
"You're not the boss of me." (again)
"I'm tired of this crap!"
"You never told me I couldn't say that word."
"It's your fault I said that word because you didn't tell me I couldn't."
"I can slam the door if I want."
"I'll watch Sponge Bob...but I'm not going to enjoy it."

She's seven years old.

Things got better as the night wore on. We even went to my-favorite-place-that-is-also-Traci's-least-favorite-place, The Chuck, with my parents. Though it's hard to enjoy it when your five-year-old is refusing to eat and your two-year-old is literally crawling all over  place (and knocking over everything in his path).

Every is now officially in bed (and hopefully asleep--Curtis has a tendency to reappear at strange times).

I'm very tired.

Single Dad: Day One

For the first time in 11 years, Traci is taking a (well-deserved) vacation, spending the weekend with her mom and sisters in St. George. For the next four days, I'll be on my own with the little monsters.


Here's how day one went down. 

8:15 a.m. Drove the carpool to school. Loaded up the Sutherlands, drove to the neighbors, drove to the other neighbors, dropped Paige off at the elementary school, and then headed to the preschool where I had to wait with the three rambunctious preschoolers (and Tate) for 15 minutes until school started. Exhausting.

9:30 a.m. Cleaned the kitchen.

11:00 a.m. My mom comes over to help me whip my yard into shape (and to laugh at Tate's nonstop talking).

Noon. Curtis comes back home from preschool

1:00 p.m. Tate goes down for a nap.

2:30 p.m. While trying to spray weeds in my backyard, I hit my on a branch of our cherry tree so hard that I thought I wouldn't be able to get back up again.

2:31 p.m. I get back up again.

3:00 p.m. Load up the boys and head off to pick up Paige.

4:00 p.m. Realize how incredibly tired I am and try unsuccessful to fool Tate into letting me take a nap while we play Punch Out on the Wii.

4:30 p.m. Play outside.

5:30 p.m. Warm up the dinner that Traci made for us, try to keep Tate from locking himself in the fridge (his f)avorite game).


6:45 p.m. Take Paige to dance class.

 7:15 p.m. Wonder if Paige's herky-jerky, flailing dancing is actually some sort of jubilant exorcism.

8:30 p.m. Shoot hoops with Curtis.

9:00 p.m. Put the kids in bed.

9:15 p.m. Wonder how Traci does this every day.

When's she coming home?


 

Such an Unmanly Man

I've been doing a lot of "man" stuff lately--fixing the sprinklers, assembling the grill, putting up the basketball hoop.

Regardless of what they do for living, men all seem to have an inherit desire to be construction workers. There's just something about working with your hands, wielding tools, exerting physical energy. 

Something that I loathe.

I have absolutely no desire to do manly stuff. When I was 14, I spent two summers working for my friend's dad's landscaping company, digging trenches and laying sod. I hated every minute of it. (Well, not every minute of it. I liked working with various dirtbag coworkers and learning pickup lines like "Hey sexy pregnant lady. Wanna go over there in them bushes and try for twins?" Even at 14, I had a hunch that didn't make scientific sense.) When I was 16, I got a job bussing tables at Red Robin. I hated cleaning the bathrooms, hosing off mats, and smelling like grease when I came home (but I loved the fries and being the birthday-song leader).

By the time I was 17, I had decided that I never wanted to have a manual labor job again.

So now I write words for a living in a tiny cubicle. There's no fresh air or sunshine or exercise but I do have a little fan and a window seat (and sometimes I take the stairs). It suits me just fine.

But unfortunately, you can't always avoid man stuff. Like when you have to fix sprinklers or assemble grills or put up the basketball hoop. I'm lousy at it and it takes me forever. I am the least handy man in the history of handymen.

I know guys who say stuff like, "I'd rather just fix it myself. That way, I know it's done right." I say the exact opposite. "I don't want to put it together because then I have to spend all my time worrying that it's going to blow up or start on fire."

I just need to find a job where I can sit in a bigger cubicle and make more money so I can pay someone to fix everything around here.

So who's hiring?

Some of Them Try to Rhyme But They Can't

I am not happy about Chris Kelly, aka Daddy Mac, aka one half of Kris Kross, dying. Not happy at all.

It's not because I was listening to Totally Krossed Out yesterday or anything, or that I've been spending the last 20 years waiting for a comeback.

It's not even about the fact that, in the sixth grade, I wore my clothes backwards to school on several occasions. Or that Ben Yost's sister put my hair into tiny, tiny braids. Or that I also shaved stripes into my eyebrows.

It's because he was 34. No one should have to die when they're 34. And nobody should have to grow up so fast that their best days all happen before they're even in high school.

R.I.P. Mr. Miggity-Miggity-Mac.

Bring Me My Slippers, Please

Having a two-year-old is a little like having a puppy. Tate loves to bring me things. He even fetches my slippers (whether or not I ask him to).

This is plenty sweet. The only problem is that he is very insistent--especially when he brings me these.



"Daddy. Slippers," he declares.

"Thanks, buddy. But I've gotta go to work. Can you hand me my shoes."

"No. Slippers."

"I can't wear slippers to work, buddy."

"Yes. Slippers."

So if you see walking around the office, rocking my Homer Simpsons, you'll understand.

Two Years of Tate

When I go back through pictures of my kids, my first thought is usually, "I can't believe how little Paige looks," or "I completely forgot that Curtis always did that."

Tate just hit the two-year mark. It seems like a good time to take a quick snapshot of our littlest guy.

Comfort stuff. If it's time for a nap or bed, there are a few necessities--his duck blanket (that he calls "baby"), his stuffed monkey ("Unkey"), and his bottle. Monkey gets more play than the others. Tate likes to push him around in a stroller, give him his own seat at the table, and let him sit on his little Thomas the Train chair. When Monkey is lost, Tate will settle for Sheep or Doggie. (Elephant is a distant third.)

TV. Tate likes to hang on us pretty much every second of every day. This makes it pretty tough to get anything done. Usually, the day's only free minutes come when Tate is watching TV. His favorite show is Blue's Clues but mostly just the the episodes with Joe (sorry, Steve). He calls Blue Bow-Bow and generally enjoys Salt and Pepper.

Black car. The vast majority of Tate's conversation revolves around "black car," our old Nissan Altima. I don't know why, but from the moment he wakes up ("Black car...garage"), to the time I go to work ("Dad...drive..black car...work"), to the time I come back home ("Dad...go work...drive it...black car"), he needs to tell us about the black car. When he's not talking about black car, or getting sooo excited to see it after we've been away ("There it is! BLACK CAR!!!"), he'll talk about "white van." But that's usually just as a way to remind us that it's not the black car.

Fashion. A few months ago, Tate made the decision that he was only wearing pajamas. Though we continue to try to get him to wear real clothes ("pockets," as we call them--telling him he needs to wear  pockets if he wants to carry his race cars is one of the only things that works), it's generally a losing battle. Most days, the best case scenario is getting him out of his nighttime jammies and into daytime jammies.

Siblings. Curtis is generally indifferent toward Tate, but Tate loves emulating everything Curtis does--and has thus learned all of the naughty boy stuff about bums and toots. Paige wants desperately to mother Tate. He responds by hitting her or pulling her hair. While he likes his siblings okay, he loves his grandpas.

Dad. Tate probably likes me best. This makes Traci sad when she doesn't have a kid to snuggle, but happy when she gets a break from him, since he's attached to me every second that I'm home.

Oh, Big Red. We're happy to have you.

A Moment of Silence

Sacrament meeting is supposed to be a respite. A place for quiet contemplation. A place for spiritual rejuvenation.

Just not when you have kids.

We spend much of our Sabbath worship trying to keep Tate from escaping the chapel or from hurling cars at  his siblings (or at the unsuspecting bystanders sitting in the pews around us). We try to keep Paige and Curtis from fighting over crayons or fishy crackers or over who's looking at who when that who doesn't like being looked at.

But something magical happened today.

It was quiet.

Paige and Curtis were both being good and Tate was sitting quietly on my lap. It was so peaceful that I was even able to close my eyes and silently take it all in.

And then I was abruptly brought back to reality--when a little finger was shoved directly up my nostril. Before I could even react, Tate had shoved a second finger up my other nostril.

There is no respite.

When Your Kid Decides to Turn You Down for a Date

I feel like Curtis gets middle-childed sometimes. We spend a lot of time working (or, rather, fighting) with Paige on her homework and piano. Tate requires energy and attention about every second of the day. And then there's Curtis, just doing his own thing.

So I thought we should do something extra fun, just the two of us. Curtis is becoming increasingly interested in sports. He loves playing soccer and football with me. Lately, we've also been having a great time drawing the logos for all of the NFL teams.

I called in some favors at work and scored some really good tickets to the Jazz/Trailblazers game. Curtis seemed pretty excited about going to his first NBA game--we talked about it for weeks--and I was probably looking forward to it even more.

Tonight was the big night.

Traci also had plans, so we had arranged to have her parents watch Paige and Tate. But when we all met up  at her parents, Traci told me there was a slight problem.

"Curtis says he's not going."

"What?" I replied. "You're kidding."

"He's been talking about going all day," she said, "but when we got in the car, he said he didn't want to go."

If I only had one word to describe Curtis, I wouldn't hesitate to say "stubborn."

I asked and I bribed and I threatened and then I bribed again. But I knew he wasn't going.

I'm not sure why he didn't want to go. I'm guessing that watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle cartoons for the thousandth time at Grandma's just seemed like a sweeter deal than sitting on the 8th row at Jazz game with his dad.

And it kind of broke my heart.

I went to the game without him.

The 40-Day Fast is Over

I did it. Forty days potato-chip-free. When we got to my parents for Easter dinner, I promptly destroyed this bowl of chips and the accompanying onion dip. 

Dear chips, 

I'm sorry I left you for so long. Let us never be separated again! 

xoxo,

 

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