(I’m listening to Alanis Morissette)

Sometimes, I think I’m going to have an awesome day with my kid and it’s just a complete 180.  Today was that day.

This all started last Friday.  I got to enjoy a powder day, but it came at a cost.  The cost was a sad, pouting, little kid who was watching her daddy pack up his gear.  She didn’t want me to go without her.  “Can I go wif you, daddy?” she said, with a pouting look on her face.  That pouting look breaks my heart, so I promised Littles that I would take her “towboarding” (that’s what she calls it) the next time.  Today was the next time.

She was a bit under the weather the past weekend, so the wife and I made sure Littles got to bed on time so she’d have plenty of sleep and have “all of the energy” (as she would say) to go snowboarding.  She was excited when she went to sleep.

We got up this morning and everything seemed fine except for one little warning sign.  Littles wouldn’t let the wife put her hair in braids.  This might seem like something insignificant, but it’s not.  Whether or not Littles lets us do her hair can be a preview on how the day will go.  If she lets us do her hair without a fight, that means she’s in a good mood.  The day will go smooth.  If she whines, complains, and refuses to let us do it, well…it’s kind of like a low stakes game of Russian roulette.  You never know what you’re going to get.

The wife finally got Littles’ hair done, we packed up our gear, and Littles and I took off for the mountain.  The ride was nice, but Littles did seem a bit tired.  She didn’t say much on the way up, but she did have a fruit snack and a McDonald’s hash brown, so I thought we were in good shape.

When we arrived at the mountain, we changed into our gear with no fuss. I grabbed our snowboards, we walked to the ticket booth, got her ticket, and went to strap on our snowboards.  Things were rolling along great!  Littles said she wanted to go on the chair lift and I said, “Well, let’s do a couple of practice runs on the bunny slope first.  I’ll pull you around for a little while and then we’ll do the chair.” She agreed.  (Her snowboard has a retractable cable on each end so you can pull her around.  It’s very handy and lets me make sure she won’t become a kamikaze.)

I pull her up the hill about 50 feet, turn her around, and let her slide back down to me.  She has a smile on her face and is yelling, “Weeeeeeeeeee!”  I pull her back up the hill, and do the same thing.  Pulling her up the hill for our third “run,” she loses her balance, and falls back on her butt, and she just lays in the snow.  As I’m encouraging her to get up, I see the look on her face.  I know that look.  She doesn’t even need to say the words, but she does.  She whimpers, “Daddy, I’m tired, I want to go home.”  We’ve been on the mountain for a half hour.  It took us an hour to get there.  I ask her if she’s sure and she confirms her earlier proclamation.  She’s tired.  She says she wants to put her princess dress on and take a nap.  There’s no fighting this.  My three-year-old’s attitude turned on a dime.  I try to persevere.  I say, “Don’t you want to snowboard with daddy anymore?”  She replies, “I don’t want to towboard anymore.  I want to go home.”

I pick her up off of the snow.  I ask her if she wants to take a break.  She nods.  I pull her over to some picnic tables and we sit down.  I’m trying to think of any idea that will energize my little girl.  I suggest taking some pictures to send to momma.  This is what I got:  (These pictures were all taken within 30 seconds and they define what it’s like to have a three-year-old)

The pictures don’t work.  I text the wife.  I write, “Ugh, We’ve been here for a half an hour and now she wants to go home.  She says she’s tired.”  She replies, “Maybe she need a snack.  Try hot chocolate!”

Hot chocolate!  Why didn’t I think of that?  I ask Littles if she wants some hot chocolate and she perks right up.  I reach into my pocket for my wallet and I realize it’s in the car.  Now, a smart dad would have just said that we’d get some on the way home.  In this moment, I was not smart.  I told her we’d walk down to the car to get my wallet and walk back up to the lodge to get some hot chocolate.  Big mistake.  The car was fairly close by, but it wasn’t “three-year-old” close.  As we walked back to the car you’d have thought I was making her hike all the way back home.  Of course, she tripped and fell.  Tears flowed.  I brushed her off.  Hugs followed.  Somehow, we made it back to the lodge and we got our hot chocolate.  

The world made sense again, for about 3 minutes.  I’m thinking, “Okay.  We’ll just sit here, share some time together, have some hot chocolate and salvage the trip.”  She had other plans.  She takes a few sips and says she didn’t want it anymore.  Trying my best not to be irritated, I said, “That’s fine. Let’s just go potty and head home.”  Now, if there’s one thing I don’t want to ask my daughter to do when she’s tired and cranky, it’s go potty.  I don’t know why, but it’s like asking her to share her favorite toy.  I could ask my daughter to do 754 things that are significantly worse, and she would do them in a heart beat if it meant she didn’t have to go potty.   Then she pulls the ultimate three-year-old routine.  She says, “I don’t want to go potty, I want to drink my hot chocolate.”  I say, “But you just said you didn’t want your hot chocolate anymore.”  She just stares at me.  I say, “Fine, drink your hot chocolate then.”  She says, “No.”  There’s no explanation, no suggestion of what she’d rather do.  She just wants to sit there and contradict herself.  Awesome.

Finally, I tell her that we can’t leave unless she goes potty first.  She miraculously relents.  We go potty.  I carry her back to the car.  I might as well be carrying a bag of lead.  She’s wiped.  She’s three.  It isn’t her fault.  I strap her into her seat and she says, “I’m sorry daddy.  I want to go towboarding again.  I’m just tired.”  I tell her it’s okay and we will try again another day.  She reaches out for hug.  I give her one, and a kiss.

We head for home.  She’s so tired that she can’t even sleep in the car.  She just sucks her thumb and twirls her hair with her finger.

When we get home, the day continues like this.  It’s a struggle.  Nothing really makes sense.  Everything is a battle or a negotiation.  There’s frustration.  She’s tired.  At bedtime, the wife and I are putting her down.  We read books.  We do our prayers.  We snuggle her into bed.  The last thing Littles says is, “I had a rough day.”  We chuckle.  We give her hugs.  We tell her we love her.  We say goodnight.

She had a rough day.  Don’t we all?

(I’m listening to Tripping Daisy – High)

I enjoy talking to older people.  They’re interesting.  They have so much knowledge and so much life experience.  They have a simple way about them.  They never seem preoccupied with the future.  They live in the present and they love to talk about the past.  It’s like talking to a living history book.  I’m always fascinated.

I really enjoy talking to older people on the chairlift.  They have what I want; the secret of being able to keep doing what they love to do.  They haven’t let life take that from them.  If I have the opportunity to talk to an older person on the chair, I’m taking advantage.  I want to know, “the secret.”  Today, I got that chance.

I had the privilege of talking to an older gentleman today.  His name is John.  We were on Chair 8 at Loveland Basin.  John had a full white beard and he wore glasses under his goggles.  He wore a stocking cap and his gear looked like it was old, but trusty, and full of stories.  He reminded me of a skiing Willie Nelson.  Normally, I’d soak up my introvert time, ride the chair in silence, or listen to music; but when John and I got on the same chair, I knew I wanted to talk to him.  We started making small talk about the weather, about where we had been on the mountain and asking each other “if it was good.” The truth was, everywhere was good thanks to the 10 inches of snow that had fallen during the previous night, but he knew a spot that was great, so I asked if I could tag along with him on the next run and he said he’d like the company.

Now, I’m no Jeremy Jones or Travis Rice on the mountain, but I can hold my own on a snowboard.  I like to ride fast, steep lines, especially in the pow.  John took us to a spot that was a bit more mellow, a run I had never taken before.  We got about 10 yards off of the groomed cat track, and I just felt the bottom give out.  We were floating and crisscrossing each other’s tracks with smiles on our faces that only powder can provide.  I felt weightless.  Zero effort was needed to make turns.  I was gliding through the snow and he was keeping up just fine.  Age couldn’t keep this man down.  He still had it and he still loved it.

We got back down to the lift and got back on the chair together.  I told him I had never been on that run before and he said it was one of his favorites.  I thanked him for showing it to me and then I said, “I’m Jevin.”  He replied with an outstretched hand and said, “Nice to meet you Jevin, I’m John.”  That’s when the questions started to flow.  I asked him where he was from.  He said, “Denver.”  I told him I lived in Denver too.  I asked him how long he’s been skiing at Loveland.  He thought for a second, then with a hint of pride in his voice, he said, “Oh let’s see.  I think about 64 years.  I’ve been coming here since…since I was about 6 or so.  1953 or 1954 was my first season I think.”  He said things looked a little different up here then, but they were still pretty much the same.  He talked about how the freeway wasn’t built yet and it was just a two lane road up to the mountain.  “You got pretty good as passing,” he said.  “They had passing lines on the road, and you really had to know what you were doing.  We didn’t have all of these 4 wheel drive vehicles they have today, but we did have some Jeeps.”

We continued to talk and he told me all about how he used to ski at Loveland, Arapahoe Basin, and Winter Park.  Since I’m familiar with all three of those areas and worked at Winter Park for a season, I asked him which area was his favorite. He said, “Back then? Winter Park.  There were so many girls at Winter Park!”  Then, with a devious chuckle, he said,  “Loveland has always been the place I loved to ski though.”  We shared a hearty laugh and started talking about the next run.

We took a few more runs together.  In between, on the lift rides up, we talked about everything from long lift lines at A-Basin’s Pali Chair, to how there used to be no bumps on the Jane (Mary Jane) at Winter Park.  “It used to be smooth,” he said.  “You could use GS (giant slalom) skis.  It’s not that way anymore.  I love to ski there still, but the knees aren’t what they used to be.”  He told me how he would hike up and ski Loveland Pass, but now, “Nobody goes in the right spot anymore.  You gotta go past the last tracks and around the slide area (making a motion with his hand like it was going around something).  That’s the ticket.”

The weather was deteriorating quickly.  It was getting really blustery and cold.  Snow was pelting our faces.  At the top of the lift, John said, “Well, I think I’m going to head back over to the other side.  It was a pleasure skiing with you today.”  I replied, “Sounds good.  The pleasure is all mine.  But hey, before you go, what’s your secret?”  “Secret?”  He said.  I said, “Yeah, your secret to skiing so long.”  He said with a smile, “I don’t have a secret,  I just keep on goin’.”  I shook his hand again and I told him to take care.  He told me to do the same then took off into the wind whipped snow.  I took a few more runs and called it a day.

On the drive home, I kept thinking about what John had said.  I thought to myself, “Just keep on goin’.”  Sounds like a plan.  Thanks, John.

 John and I on Chair 8.

 

 

(I’m listening to “Into You” by Fabolous.)

I can’t cook or bake.  Somewhere along the line, those skills passed me by, never to be learned.  I don’t know why I didn’t learn how to do them, I just didn’t.  Maybe it was because my mom always did the cooking or baking in my house and I never took an interest in it.  I don’t have recipe books that are handed down, not that I would know how to use them if I did.  I don’t know, I just never learned how to cook or bake.

If I think about it, it is kind of strange that I never learned how to cook or bake.  I was 30 when I got married, which meant that I lived the bachelor life for about 9 years.  What did I eat?  Hungry Man only goes so far.  I can make breakfast, but it’s really hard to screw up scrambling eggs, cooking sausage, and making pancakes from a mix.  Plus, that’s only one meal of the day.  What about the other two?  I can grill, but I’m not even great at that, plus, it’s not like I’m going to fire up a grill for myself.  I don’t know.  Somehow, I survived.

I’m really surprised I even was able to get married without being able to cook or bake.  Think about it.  I’ve made exactly zero dinners for Valentine’s Day, birthdays, anniversaries, special occasions, or any day for that matter.  Seriously, ask anyone.  Ask the wife, ask any old girlfriend.  I have never cooked or baked.  That’s not to say I’ve never “helped out,” but cook a meal from start to finish?  Nope, unless you count spaghetti a few times, which I don’t really count as cooking.  Anything that requires multiple ingredients has never been done by me.  I am oh for 38 years.

With that said, I do have two great skills when it comes to meal times.  The first one is: I can do dishes like it’s my job.  No pile is too big, no messes are too gross, no pan is too dirty.  I can clean up like a pro and I actually enjoy it.  Plus, I can put everything away in relatively the right spot.  I don’t ever use a mixer, but I know where it goes in the cupboard.  I don’t use a garlic press, but I know what it’s called and I know where it goes, even though I don’t know how to actually use garlic.  Yep, I stick to what I know.  I stick to where I’ll do the least damage.  I try to pick up a few cooking skills from the wife, but if you’re counting on me to make a dinner for company, you better hope they like tortillas with cheese and pizza sauce or mac and cheese (from the box, of course).  I can’t cook, but I will do their dishes.

Doing dishes really lights the wife’s fire.  It might be a simple pleasure for her to wake up to clean dishes, but it’s an appreciated one, and I know this.  It’s like a validation of her effort to make the meals and take care of our family.  So, when the kitchen is left like this:

I try my best to make sure it looks like this:

I get home from the day job between 5:30 pm to 6 pm and when there’s a meal on the table, which is almost always, I know she did that with a crazy 3-year-old running around and a 1-year-old on her hip.  She cooks with that degree of difficulty and it rivals that of an Olympic gymnast.  I can do the dishes, and a lot of times, she helps with that too!

Our dishes are really gross.  We have a 3-year-old and a 1-year-old.  There’s few worse things for the wife than waking up, walking to the kitchen to get her coffee, and having a pile of dishes with mashed up food on them.  It kind of reminds me of a good college buddy who was hit by a car.  One of the side effects is that he lost his sense of smell for a while which really played with his sense of taste.  So, what we could do is mash-up different foods in one of our cafeteria cups and pay him to drink it.  The concoctions my friends and I made were gross, but they had nothing on what my kids leave behind at any given meal.  One of the “few worse things” for the wife is to open the dishwasher only get a nice whiff of old baby formula bottles and mashed up food. I know she gags when that happens and she might even gag while reading this.  The smell is just awful and that’s the last thing she needs to start her day.  By the way, my college buddy made a full recovery.

Doing dishes may not sound like much, but it’s the little things like this that go a long ways.  The wife’s love languages are “acts of service” and “quality time.”  If the wife wakes up to an orderly house, that’s a huge detail off of her plate (no pun intended).  I did an act of service for her, and I saved her the time of doing the dishes which creates more quality time for us.  That fills her love tank.  Happy wife, happy life.  And, when the wife’s love tank if full, she tries to fill mine.  She knows one of the best ways to do that is to free up some time for me to go snowboarding, which is my stress reliever, which makes me a better human and a better dad.  It’s a simple cycle and everyone wins.

In a nutshell, that’s why I enjoy doing the dishes.  In case you’re wondering what my second skill is when it comes to meal times?  I can suggest going out to eat.  Then, everyone really wins.

 

 

 

(I’m listening to the “Stuck In The Middle With You” by Stealers Wheel)

We’re taking the girls on their first road trip.  It’s a rite of passage into being kids.  Littles is almost 4 and Tiny turns 1 soon, so we felt it was time.  We’re headed to Pagosa Springs, CO to relax and get away.  It’s about a 5 hour drive and no road trip would be complete without a playlist, so I’ve made two.  One is for the 90’s and 2000’s (because the kids need to know about good music and I feel it’s my responsibility to teach them) and the other is full of oldies (because you have to respect the classics).  I’ve been on a lot of road trips in my life.  Some have been with family, some have been with friends, and a lot have been by myself; but there have always been a few constants: good times, great memories, and excellent music.  It’s time to pass on that gift of music to my kids.

Great memories have a way of attaching themselves to music.  Those songs serve as a time capsule and once you open it and listen to them, a flood of great memories come roaring back.  When I was kid, we went on a few memorable road trips and I remember dad having the oldies station on.  It was a different time, before Walkmans, CD players, iPods, and smartphones.  I had to listen to what the two people in the front seats, my parents, wanted to listen to.  Oh, I could give some input, but we listened to music as a family.  Music was a way to bond; now, people listen to isolate.

Those early trips as a kid were great.  I received my musical knowledge from groups like, The Lovin’ Spoonful, The Spencer Davis Group, Simon and Garfunkel, The Beach Boys, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Jimi Hendrix, and many others.  That’s what was on the radio, so that’s what we listened to.

I’ll never forget the trip when I got my first portable CD player.  The trip was a massive 6,000 miles that took us through California, east to Texas, north to Iowa, and then back home to Washington.  I only had a few CD’s to my name but I remember them vividly: B-52’s “Cosmic Thing,” Bryan Adams’ “Waking Up The Neighbours,” and The Cars Greatest Hits.  I thank BMG to this day for those CD’s and I’ll always remember cruising in the back of my parent’s Nissan Quest.

 

As childhood gave way to semi-adulthood, it was time for me to go to college.  More road trips, music, and memories ensued.  I made the trip from my home in Washington to my school in Iowa so many times during those 4 years.  CD players were common in cars by then, and I had made a small investment to put one in mine.  Those trips were filled with everything from Pearl Jam, to Elton John, to 2Pac, to Tom Petty.  You name it, I probably listened to it.

One particular story comes to mind about a one hit wonder named Donna Lewis.  On the maiden voyage to school, my best friend, who was my college roommate, made me listen to it.  It was his and his girlfriend’s “song.”  I, being a 17-year-old boy, ribbed him mercilessly for it, but to this day, I love that song.  Whenever I hear that beat of, “bum bum bum, bum bum ba dum dum, I love you, always forever, near and far, closer together”…I think of that trip.  We were young, we had our whole lives ahead of us, we had no idea what was in store, and we were excited.

On one trip home from school, much to the chagrin of my mom, I drove straight through.  I covered 1,700 miles in just over 24 hours without so much as a nap.  Mom was pretty ticked when I showed up at our house just before dawn. I didn’t tell her I was going to do it.  I didn’t really know I was going to do it.  I had even told her I was going to stop for the night, but when I hit the Washington border at 9pm with Pearl Jam’s “Even Flow” blaring out of the speakers, I thought, “Well, I’m almost home now, might as well push on through.”  She wasn’t impressed, but I was.  There was nothing better than putting the AAA time estimation to shame.

The last trip from Iowa to Washington led me to discover one of my favorite songs.  I had checked into this cheap motel in Montana; the kind with no name and that looked like it hadn’t been remodeled since the 70’s.  I keyed into the room, locked the deadbolt, fastened the chain, and I turned on the TV.  There was this dude walking on a beach and singing, “look at the stars, looks how they shine fooooor you.”  The song?  Coldplay’s “Yellow.”  I will never forget hearing that song and how I wanted to listen to it so badly for the rest of the road trip. The problem was, the CD wouldn’t be released for another week.  I know, because I tried to buy it at a Best Buy the next day and they told me.  Keep in mind, this was before I could just go to iTunes, download it, and listen to it 6,000 times on repeat.  I would have to wait for the CD.  So there I was, sitting in silence, driving, and I had those opening guitars stuck in my head.  None of the other music I had with me sounded as good.  I just wanted to hear that one song over and over and over, and I couldn’t.

When the wife and I were dating, we moved her from Minnesota to Colorado.  We stuffed her whole life into a Volkswagen Rabbit.  She even had some of her bedding in those vacuum sealed bags, and they broke inside the car.  The bedding just filled in the gaps of where stuff wasn’t.  She literally rode with a backpack on their lap for 15 hours because there was nowhere else to put it.  I have a whole playlist dedicated to that event, but one song comes to mind:  Wyclef Jean’s “Sweetest Girl (Dollar Bill).”  Whenever I hear it, I’ll always remember starting our life together.

The point is, music is full of memories and now it’s my turn to make some memories for my kids.  Making these playlists has been a blast from the past.  It seems like every song I choose for the list has some sort of memory attached to it.  It’s like jumping into a time machine and listening to the soundtrack of my life.  I can’t wait to hit the open road, make some memories, and listen to some great music.  I just hope the kids think it’s as great as I do.  Regardless, one day, they’ll listen, look back, and remember.

(I’m listening to “Warning Sign” by Coldplay”

I don’t hate running, but I really don’t like it all that much.  It’s kind of boring.  Step after step.  Some of my friends who are runners say it gives them solitude or it’s refreshing or it gives them a challenge.  I can understand their point, but it won’t ever mean that to me.  To me, running is just a means to an end.  That doesn’t mean I don’t do it, I just haven’t done much of it lately.  Running is one of those things I don’t like to do, but once I do it, I feel good.

I wish I loved running.  I wish it was an adrenaline rush, or it felt like an accomplishment, but it doesn’t, at least not to me.  For those that it does, I tip my cap.  I’m envious.  I’ll never be the one with the 26.2 or 13.1 stickers on my car.  I’ve run a couple of 10k’s before, but that was just something fun to do.  Our route took us through all the major sports stadiums in Denver, a few of my friends were doing it, so I joined them.

With that said, I do need to run.  About 2 year ago, I ran quite a bit.  I was psyched up for a snowboarding trip to Silverton Mountain which was going to require a lot of hiking.  I didn’t want to be huffing and puffing at 13,000 feet, so I laced up the old running shoes and hit the trails by my house.  Sadly, that probably marked the last time I was in “good” shape.  In those two years, I’ve put on about 10 lbs.  I’m not a “foodie.”  I could live off of tortillas, spaghetti sauce, cheese, and water if I had to.  One time, the wife left town with the kids for a couple of days, and the fridge looked like this:

 I survived.  Anyway, back to those 10 lbs.  They just kind of appeared.  After that snowboarding trip, the wife was pregnant with our second child, Tiny.  Keeping on a decent diet with a pregnant woman is kind of like walking into a casino and saying, “I’m not going to gamble tonight.”  The wife loved what she called, “Her 4th meal.”  She’d eat right before she went to bed so she felt satiated and wouldn’t be sick.  I don’t blame her at all.  She was growing a human being inside of her, for goodness sake.  But, I’d get roped into the 4th meal.  So, the 10 lbs just appeared.

Once Tiny was born, running really wasn’t an option either.  Those first few months of a new baby, man, the wife and I just felt like zombies; half awake, half asleep.  Even with Tiny being a “unicorn baby,” meaning, she slept through the night at about the 8 week mark thanks to the wife’s sleep training education, running just wasn’t a priority.  Plus, I just figured chasing around a three-year-old on a few hours of sleep would keep the pounds off.  Wrong.

The next option was, well, I just figured I’d snowboard myself into shape.  With Tiny sleeping through the night and winter right around the corner, I figured that would do the trick.  I’m kind of weird.  I get more active in the winter and slow down during the summer.  I hate being too hot, and I love being cold.  So, during the winter, I usually shed the unwanted pounds naturally.  Yep, didn’t happen.  I went on another snowboard trip this winter and huffed and puffed up some of the hikes we did.  No bueno, but I made it and still had a great time.

Well, summer is rolling around again and I’m still carrying the ten.  I don’t obsess about my weight.  I’d say I have a range in which I feel good, and I like to be in that range.  Once I get to the top of that range, I start doing some mountain biking, skateboarding, and even running.  Combing that with watching what I eat a little bit more and I can usually get back down into that feel good range.

There’s one caveat though.  I’m actually getting older.  I’m approaching 40 and I’m realizing that, well, a chocolate shake will stay with me for a little longer than it used to.  There’s a little more jiggle these days.  Also, running doesn’t quite appeal to my body like it once did.  There’s a couple of extra creaks, but it’s not that bad.  I’m a firm believer  in “If you slow down, you get old,” so I don’t plan on slowing down any time soon.  Keep in mind, I am still in my 30’s, so it’s not like I’m getting fake hips and knees of something.  I’m still young.

The running shoes are starting to speak to me.  I can hear them in the closet.  They’re saying, “Hey, remember us!  We can help!”  Ugh.  They’re getting louder.  Here the are, the evil twins.

The funny part about me and running is that no matter how long of a layoff I have from it, I can just pick it up and run three miles at the drop of a hat.  It’s not easy, and I feel it for the next few days, but I can do it.  This frustrates the wife.  We actually had a conversation about this tonight and I said jokingly, “I can do it because I’m a man.  It’s just straight brawn.  It’s just science.”  We both got a chuckle out of that.

I’ll probably start running again.  The 10 lbs don’t really worry me though. The reason while I’ll start running again is simple: I want to keep up with my kids.  I consider myself a bit of an “older parent.”  We had our first when I was 35 and our second when I was 37, so I’d say that qualifies as a bit of a late start.  I just want to make sure I can keep up with them.  There’s lot of experiences I want to share with them and I just want to make sure I can do all the things I want to do with them.  I want to teach them how to snowboard, skateboard, ride a bike, play sports, etc.  I want to be as young as I can for as long as I can for them, and for me.  It’s part of my balance of being a dad and being human.

With that said, I’m off to bed.  A day on the mountain awaits.  Snowboard season is fading fast, and I don’t want to miss the opportunity to be active, to be human, and be a better dad.

I hope those running shoes don’t keep me awake.

(I’m listening “Wild Horses” by The Sundays)

When I was 12 years old, I had a paper route.  It taught me a lot of lessons about life.  It taught me how to budget.  It taught me about hard work.  It taught me about responsibility.  It taught me about meeting a deadline.  It taught me about punctuality, and most important, it taught me about priorities.  Those lessons weren’t always learned the easy way; in fact, a lot of them were learned the hard way, but they were definitely learned.

My parents would probably laugh at the last lesson because, well, let’s just say that as a 12-year-old kid, the paper route wasn’t necessarily priority number one on my list.  I had other things to do, like becoming the next Tony Hawk, or brushing up on my skills for my career with the Boston Celtics.  Yep, there weren’t many things I’d rather be doing than skateboarding or playing basketball, and that included my paper route.

The funny things was, I was a pretty good paperboy. I had about 50 customers.  On days where the papers were thin, I could do my route from start to finish in under a half an hour.  That included folding the papers, putting rubber bands around them, loading them up on my bike, and chucking them on my customer’s porches.  I’d actually time myself to see how fast I could ride my bike and throw those papers.  I’d be bombing them from everywhere; the more challenging the throw, the better.  I was the Greg Maddux or Tom Brady of paperboys.  Overhand, side arm, underhanded, it didn’t matter the throw, I could nail it, while at top speeds on my bike.  I’d even pretend I was in a race with other paperboys and had to start at the back of the pack.  With every throw I completed, I’d move up a couple of spots; kind of like a NASCAR race.  Depending on the day, I’d make unbelievable comebacks, or I’d lead start to finish, and I always finished in first place.  On those days, I was a model of efficiency.  My priorities were right in line.

Not all days were like that though.  Some days, the true prioritization skills of a 12-year-old would take over.  There were a couple of common scenarios.  The first one was; I wouldn’t even get out of the gates because of a pick up basketball game going on in my own driveway or skateboarding in our cul-de-sac.  I got so good at my paper route that I figured I’d always have enough time to do it.  If the papers had to be delivered by 5:30pm, I could wait until 5:15pm to start delivering because I could race through it in under 15 minutes.  The problem was, 5:15 would turn into 5:17 and then 5:21 and then 5:25.  Uh oh.

The other scenario was: I had some friends that lived on my route and I would take a “pit stop” to play a game of hoops.  The worst was that one of my friends lived about 8 customers away from the “finish line.”  Looking back, it was kind of dumb.  I could have delivered those last 8 papers in about a minute and a half, circled back and played some one on one to 100, but no, I would stop instead.  My parents would start wondering where I was, take the car on my route, and find me shooting buckets, 8 houses from the end.  They couldn’t understand it.  They’d tell me, “Put down the ball down and deliver your papers!”  I could have and I should have, but at 12 years old, my priorities were out of whack.

Twenty-five years later, my priorities can still be out of whack from time to time.  I was reminded of that on today’s day off with my girls.  I thought about my paper route and that valuable lesson of prioritization.

At my day job, I’m the boss.  People rely on me for the business to run smoothly.  Today was anything but smooth.  I had people calling out, people calling me for things, and some “fires” to put out.  None of the issues were major and I have partners who are perfectly capable of solving these issues, but I made a mistake.  Just like that 12-year-old that couldn’t resist picking up the ball or skateboard; this 38-year-old couldn’t resist picking up the phone.  I don’t even know why I checked it.  Usually, I just leave my phone in my room, unless I’m taking pictures of the kids or something, but today, I checked the notifications.  Big mistake.  One thing led to another and before I knew it, I was “shooting hoops”; only in this case, that wasn’t the more fun priority.

My kids noticed, not because of me being on the phone, but because of what I was reading and what was being said to me on the phone.  I was getting frustrated and because I was getting frustrated, they were getting frustrated.  My kids are smart.  They know when I’m not paying as much attention to them as I should.  Then, they start competing for that attention.  Then the wheels fall off.  The, “in a minute,” and “hang on a second” comments start coming out.  They start acting up even more.  Finally the, “Could you be quiet for just a minute” came out.  Feelings were hurt.  Guilt was felt.  I knew I was wrong.  My priorities got mixed up.  Instead of, “Put the ball down and do your route,” I heard, “Put the phone down and be a dad!”  Apologies were made.  Hugs were given.  The phone was put down.  My perfectly capable co-workers were on their own, and my girls wouldn’t be.  Whatever needed to be fixed at the day job would be there tomorrow, but my today’s with my girls won’t always be.

I didn’t look at my phone for the rest of the day.  We played, rode bikes, had hot chocolate, built forts, listened to music, danced, bounced, hugged, smiled, and laughed.  “Put the ball down and do your route!”  That’s good advice, at 12 or 38.  I’m sorry girls.

(I’m listening to P.M. Dawn – I’d Die Without You)

The wife and I do a really good job of giving each other “free time.”  It’s intentional.  We realize it’s just as important for us to do things by ourselves as it is for us to do things together.  Today I’d spent some of my free time skateboarding and thinking about Mr. Brock, a man for which I mowed lawn when I was a teenager.

Rewind a bit to Thursday night.  Thursday night was girl’s night.  The wife had a night out planned with some friends.  She asked if I could please be home from work on time.  I surprised her by being home early (this scored some points).  She went out with her friends and had a great time.  I stayed home with the little ladies and had a great time.  She came home and we talked about our schedule for the weekend.  She said her work for the week was done so I could head up to the mountain on Friday before work.  Bless her heart.

My mom texted me late Thursday night.  She told me Bob Brock had died.  Mr. Brock was a customer on my paper route when I was 15.  He also had a large house with a huge yard and he was meticulous about it.  He mowed it four or five times a week.  He didn’t catch the lawn clippings; he just let them fall back into the yard.  It rivaled a professional baseball field.  That grass was so green and it just went on forever.  It was like walking on a sponge.  The yard was perfect.  It might have been the best yard in a town full of people who took extreme pride in their lawns.  Rumor has it there are laws in my hometown about how long your yard can be.  I think it’s six inches.  I’m not sure what the consequences are for being above the legal limit.  Maybe it’s called a “YUI” and there’s a fine, maybe jail time? I have no idea because I don’t think anyone has ever dared to test the law.  That town cared about its yards.  Anyway, back to Mr. Brock.

Mr. Brock was an older gentleman.  He was in his 70’s.  He had worked in the Reagan administration.  As it turned out, it wasn’t just his yard that was meticulous, everything about him was meticulous, but somehow it all had a purpose.  He was always dressed in khaki pants and a khaki shirt that had been pressed.  He wore a red had and always had a rag hanging out of his back pocket.  He also wore work boots that had many miles on them.  It was like he was the owner of a lawn mower store in the 1950’s.  He was very polite and professional.  He always called me “sir” and I always called him, Mr. Brock.

One day, I was collecting my monthly fee for the newspapers I delivered to Mr. Brock.  We began to talk about his yard.  He told me he was looking for someone to help him in the yard, particularly to mow.  I told him I had a little mowing experience from toiling away on my father’s yard for years and that seemed to be enough for Mr. Brock.  He told me to come back tomorrow after my paper route, I could mow his lawn, and he’d make a decision.

The next day, I was a bit nervous when I rode my bike to Mr. Brock’s house after my paper route.  It was kind of like da Vinci asking me to do a little work on the Mona Lisa.  I got behind the mower.  Mr. Brock started it up for me.  I had never heard a lawnmower hum like that before, or ever again.  It was perfect and I’ll never forget that sound, just a gentle, “Whrrrrrrrrrr.”  On the throttle, a thin line had been scratched on the metal.  I was told to put the throttle no further than that line.  If I did, the blades would spin too fast and it wouldn’t cut the grass as well.  Yes sir.  I began to mow.  Two laps around the outer boundary of the grass.  Every lap had to have the outside wheel track overlapped by the inside wheel.  Once I was done with the outer laps, I could cut diagonal lines across the middle.  I had to make sure to pick a fixed object to stare at, so at the end of the lap, I would have a straight line.  It was like Lawn Mowing 401.

I must have done alright because he offered me the job based on some conditions.  I would mow at least four times a week and at least two Saturday’s per month.  He would pay me $12 each time I mowed…after taxes.  Yep, he made me file taxes.  I mentioned he worked for Reagan, right?  If it rained, which it did a lot in Washington, I had to mow the first dry day that was available (except Sunday).  I had one request.  I asked it if would be okay if I wore a Walkman while I mowed.  For the first few weeks, he didn’t let me.  He wanted me to be able to hear the mower to make sure it was at the right speed.  He relented once I proved my worth.

I skateboarded or rode my bike to Mr. Brock’s house, almost every other day, for the next three years.  The last year, I drove my car.  I even quit the paper route.  Although it’s been more than 20 years since I mowed Mr. Brock’s lawn, I remember it like it was yesterday.  I can remember the exact patterns in which I would mow.  I can remember, the songs I heard on “Vancouver’s new music station, ZED 95.3!” Those songs have a special nostalgia associated with them when I hear them today.  I can remember the smell of the exhaust of the motor, the softness of the sod beneath my feet, and the green…man, that yard was so green.  I can even picture the view of Mt. Baker from his yard and feel the sun on my shoulders.

When I’m back home, I always end up driving by Mr. Brock’s home.  It’s very close to my parent’s house, so it’s hard to miss.  It hasn’t been Mr. Brock’s home for a while.  He and his wife moved a while back, although I don’t know where.  I just know he doesn’t live there anymore.  He couldn’t have.  The yard is run down.  The current owners planted pine trees in the yard.  Underneath the pine trees are brown circles where brilliant green grass used to be.  The wonderful flowers and plants are overgrown.  Everything looks 40 years older instead of 20.  The immaculate yard is gone, and so is Mr. Brock.  He passed away this week.  He was 95 years old.  I’m sure he’ll have the best yard in Heaven.  Even though I haven’t seen him in years, part of me will miss him.

I was supposed to go snowboarding this morning.  My wife had given me some free time. She took the girls on an outing with some other moms.  I slept in.  I didn’t mean to.  My body just needed it, I guess.  Instead, I rolled out of bed, got ready and got out my skateboard.  As I was rolling around our street, I felt something familiar.  I felt the morning air, the sunshine, and it felt like lawn mowing weather.  I thought of Mr. Brock.  I can’t believe the memories I have from mowing a lawn.

(I’ve been on a Coldplay streak for a couple of days)

I got a “do-over” today.  Yesterday, something told me not to go.  The mountains were saying, “Stay away.”  Today was a different story.  All systems were go.  The mountains were saying, “Come on in!  Let’s party!”  Thanks to the day job, I was able to rearrange my schedule and get to the mountains.  This isn’t all about snowboarding though.

The storm had passed.  The forecast was clear.  There was a fresh blanket of snow on the mountains.  The sky was as clear as I could remember.  Here is the view from the chair.

The day wasn’t without its hitches.  The hour-long drive to Loveland took a little over two.  A rock-slide closed the westbound lanes of I-70 .  Traffic was rerouted through Idaho Springs, a small town on the way to the mountain.  Normally, this would be a major inconvenience, but instead of getting frustrated, I looked.

Years ago, I lived in a mountain town.  It was one of the best years of my single life.  I worked, I rode, I rafted, and I learned a lot about myself.  One thing I learned is I want that experience again.  I don’t want it now, but I want it someday.  I thought about that while winding my way through Idaho Springs.  It was so peaceful; this small town, tucked away from the city.  It was almost like the rest of the world didn’t exist.

Due to the melting snow on the roads, I had to stop and buy windshield wipers.  The old ones just weren’t cutting it.  For some reason, this always happens in Idaho Springs.  I think I’ve purchased at least four pairs in this town.  It makes sense, considering that’s usually where I start running into bad weather.  Anyway, I walk into the hardware store and four gentlemen are waiting to greet me.  I say hello and I tell them I need windshield wipers for our 2003 Honda CRV.  They tell me it won’t be a problem.  They get out a wiper catalog and look them up.  The find the wipers on a rack, hand them to a “kid,” he was probably about 20 or so, and he offers to put them on for me.  He even calls me sir.  The other gentleman rings up my wipers and I pay for them using a credit card.  He hands me a hand written receipt.  It’s like I traveled back in time; traveled back to a time where people mattered, manners were used, and technology was minimal.

I get back into the car and head for the mountains.  I think about my experience at the hardware store.  It stays on my mind while on the hill.  A simpler time.  I think about my time working on the ski slopes.  My job was to check people’s tickets.  A remedial job that, at the time, I didn’t realize how special it was.  It was a job, an $8.25 an hour job.  It wasn’t special then, but it is now.  I’d see people on vacation.  They would roll up to the resort in their fancy cars and I’d think, “Man, I can’t wait until I’m that person.”  Now, I am that person.  I don’t have to go on vacation to get to the mountains and I don’t have a fancy car, but I’m not exactly checking people’s tickets these days.  I just want to, but not right now.  Someday.  When I retire, I want to live in the mountains.  I want to bump chairs a couple of days a week to stay active.  I want to still be snowboarding.  We’ll see.

This all brings me back to today.  Being up in the mountains really makes me appreciate what I have.   It’s a reminder of a supportive wife who understands my passions.  It’s a reminder of a good career that supports my passions.  It’s a reminder of my wonderful girls, who will hopefully share my passions.  It’s a reminder of my health.  It’s a reminder of creation; a sky so blue it hurts my eyes to look at it, mountains so big that make me feel so small, and snow that is so white and so pure.  I have a great life and for that, I am thankful.

 

(I’m listening to “Oceans” by Coldplay)

It’s my “human” day.  The day I get to leave my “dad card” at home.  My introvert time.  Time to recharge my batteries.  I was well on my way, then I ran into this:

I’m somewhere in that mess of traffic on the left hand side of the picture.  I-70 westbound was closed due to an accident.  There was an alternate route, but it would be jammed.  I might not make it there until 11am or later.  An easy 1 hour drive could easily turn into 3 1/2 hours, and that was just the way there.  I pulled off the highway and into a park and ride to weigh my options.

I had a nagging feeling.  Something was telling me not to go; it just wasn’t my day.  I had been driving for about 40 minutes and made it about 18 miles.  Usually it’s an 18 minute drive.  The roads were icing over.  I had already seen spun out cars in the median, and I was just outside of Denver.  More snow was going to fall, and of course, the highway was closed.  I checked the traffic cameras on my phone.  “Well, it doesn’t look too bad after Idaho Springs,” I told myself.  I called the wife and let her know what was up.  She just said, “Just keep in touch and let me know what you decide.”  I just couldn’t shake that feeling.  Something was telling me not to go.

Now, I have driven in worse conditions, many times, and I have driven a lot.  I’ve driven 1,700 miles in 24 hours.  I’ve driven in snowstorms where visibility was zero. I’ve been the last person through the gates, just before they close a freeway due to hazardous conditions.  I’ve even followed a trucker’s taillights for 50 miles at 15 mph through a blizzard to get where I needed to go.  I was thinking about these trips of yesteryear, when, “Hey, the cars on the highway are moving!  They’re opening the road!”

“Alright,” I told myself, “It looks kind of dicey, but we can make it.  We’ll try to get to Idaho Springs and we’ll see what happens from there.”  I pulled out of the park and ride and made my way to the entrance ramp.  The entrance ramp was closed.  The gate was down and a state patrol car was blocking the road.  “What? Why?” I asked myself.  Cars and trucks were slowly churning up the highway, so why was the gate closed?  I told you, something was telling me not to go.  It wasn’t telling anyone else, just me.

I pulled into the park and ride again and waited.  I checked road conditions again, I checked forecasts again, I looked at the traffic cameras again; everything looked “just okay.”  I started to try to convince myself, “Yep, let’s go.  This is your day off.  You don’t have the kids. This doesn’t happen often.  You haven’t been up in a while.  You have to take advantage of this.”  Half convinced, I started calculating.  “Okay, if it takes me 2 hours to get up there, that’s 10:30am.  Then I can ride for a few hours.  Then it will be 1:30.  That will give me 2 hours to get home, just in case.  Then I can be home on time to pick up the girls.”

Then, the dad card, the card I thought I had left at home, kicked in.  Maybe it was the thought of my girls.  Maybe I second guessed my calculations.   “Wait a minute.  You saw the resort cameras.  There’s 4 inches of new snow up there…4.  It’s not a foot and a half.  If you were supposed to go, why was that gate closed, even though the road was open?  Besides, the roads are snow-packed and icy.  The tires need to be replaced at the end of the summer.  I wish I had done that sooner.  Whatever.  We could still make it, but why risk it?  For 4 lousy inches?  You have to be back by 4pm.  Is it worth it?”

Recently, I took an avalanche safety course called, “Know Before You Go.”  There’s 5 steps to follow in order to keep you out of an avalanche.  On the mountain, they’re extremely valuable.  They’re life-saving.  With that said, I never really thought they could apply to the drive.  I guess sometimes, the journey can be more dangerous than the destination.  The 5th step is:  Get Out of Harms Way.

Ten years ago, I wouldn’t have blinked.  I would have gone and I most likely would have made it and had a great day.  I was human then, but that was then.  Now, I’m a dad.  I have responsibilities.  I’ve made promises.  That takes priority.  Today, all signs said, “Stop.”  Something was telling me not to go, so I didn’t.  It just didn’t seem worth it.  The mountains will be there tomorrow and I’ll live to ride another day.

One of my favorite snowboarders, Jeremy Jones, once said, “Sometimes the mountains are saying, stay away.  Other times, they’re saying, come on in!  Let’s party!”  Today, they were telling me to stay away.  They weren’t telling others, just me.  It’s good to listen.

I got home, unloaded my stuff, and put down my phone.  I’m not going to check the road conditions for the rest of the day…well, maybe once, when it’s time to get my girls.

(I’m listening to “Unknown Legend” by Neil Young)

On the dad versus human scale today, I’m 100% dad.  Every day is my parenting day, but Monday’s are different.  On Monday’s, I find out what I’m made of.  On Monday’s, it’s just dad.  Mom is at work.  My safety net is gone.  My margin for error is razor thin.  I can run the whole gauntlet of emotions on these days, within 5 minutes.  Sometimes, these days are a piece of cake and sometimes…oh man.

I love these days.  It’s my day with the girls and I know someday, they’ll be gone.  Someone once told me that having kids is “long days, but short years.”  That couldn’t be more true.  Both Littles and Tiny are getting bigger and it’s a blast to watch them grow and develop. Plus, they’re really funny and cute…and mobile.  These days are ours, and I want to remember them.  So, here’s a running diary of my day with my little ladies.

1:20am. Got up because Littles lost her blankets. Had to cover her back up. This is my favorite kind of wake up because it’s one minute long. I barely have to wake up for this. The wife and I have sort of an unspoken agreement; whoever doesn’t work in the morning, gets up if the kids do. I don’t work today, so I’m up.

4:00am. Littles got scared of the dark. I had to comfort her. As bad as this seems, this is my second favorite type of wake up.  I get lots of snuggles and Littles thinks her dad can protect her from anything.

7:43am. Rise and shine! Everyone slept in! I hear Tiny rolling around and jabbering. I decide to let the wife sleep in some more, so I’ll handle the kids. I walk into Tiny’s room and she whispers, “Dadadadada.”  She just started saying that lately, but she’s been saying, “Mamamamama” for a few month.  We’re off to a good start here.

7:47am. I go into Littles room. She’s still out like a light. I would be too if I woke up 2 times that night. Oh wait, I did, but I still have to get up.

7:48am. I go into the kitchen to get a bottle and a sippy of milk.  I hope bottles are made and some sippies are clean. It’s the worst when they aren’t.  Then you have to clean them yourself and old formula has a unique smell that you’re not prepared to deal with first thing in the morning.  Good, everything is clean.

7:50am. Littles is still out. I offer her milk with ice cubes in it (her favorite). She reacts by grunting and sucking her thumb. I pull open her blinds and turn her sound machine off. It’s like waking up an angry badger sometimes.

7:51am. I give Tiny her bottle. She pounds half of it and she’s smiling and ready to go. I change her diaper and we go into Littles room.

8:05am. Littles is awake. It’s like someone flipped a switch.  She’s all smiles. Two minutes ago she could have been an 80-year-old man that just had his yard walked on. Now she’s great. Can’t wait for the teen years! Anyway, it’s time to go invade momma.

8:07am. I wake up the wife by throwing two little girls at her.  The wife got to “sleep in” until 8:07 so she’s in a great mood. Snuggles all around!

8:35am. Momma is leaving for work, but not after Littles has to say goodbye with hugs three times.  We finally stand out on the porch and watch momma drive away.  Littles has started doing this with either one of us.  It’s cute and you also have to build a few minutes into the morning schedule for it.  You can’t leave the other person with a meltdown, not when it could be avoided with an extra hug.

8:40am. Breakfast time! Littles wants a bagel with strawberry cream cheese. We don’t have strawberry cream cheese. I compromise by saying I’ll make some by mixing cream cheese with strawberry jam. Compromise accepted. Thank goodness.

9:17am. Tiny is getting tired so it’s time for her nap. You can tell because she just crawls around and moans.  She doesn’t cry.  She just moans and smiles while moaning.  It’s kind of weird.  Anyway, I put on a “Sofia the First” for Littles while I put Tiny down. “Sofia the First” is just as effective as cement shoes.  She won’t move an inch.

9:32am. Tiny is out. It’s just me and Littles. She wants to “snuggle and watch another Sofia.” She had me at snuggle.  This is also a time where I might steal an extra snooze.

10:04am. Littles tells me to turn the TV off.   Good girl!  She tells me she wants another bagel. I give her the other half. We put on some music. We listen to “Rocketman” and start singing along. I love her singing.  She matches pitch really well.

10:32am. Tiny is done with her nap. Littles goes in to check on her while I get a bottle ready.  Littles asks me if she can play with Tiny in her crib. Yep! Voluntary containment!

11:02am. They both want to get out. Now they’re playing with Littles kitchen set. I love watching them play together. Littles is making food for Tiny. My heart overflows.  Littles always cooks and bakes with the wife.

11:40am Tiny crawls into the master shower, probably to poop. (That’s her thing)

11:45am. Yep, Tiny pooped. Wow.

11:54am. Lunch time! Littles won’t eat because she had a whole bagel today, so that might sustain her for the next 3 days, but Tiny is taking it down.  Green beans, mac and cheese, and cheerios.  She’s a garbage disposal.

12:09pm. I’m peeling bandaids off of a toy flamingo. It’s like trying to get gum out of hair.

12:17pm. I’m a full blown waiter, except one of my customers can’t talk. She just acts distressed until I get her something she likes. The other customer is happy with milk.  I hope I get a good tip.

12:18pm. I’d like to note that I haven’t showered today.

12:22pm. Tiny makes herself throw up by gagging herself with her finger. Mashed up green beans, mac and cheese, and cheerios come out. Awesome. The smell is distinct.

12:28pm. People are getting tired around here.

12:29pm. I realized I’ve had to pee for the last hour.

12:37pm. Littles has reached her “no” phase.  She does this when she gets tired.  I’m telling her the plan for the rest of the day and everything is met by “no.”  I could tell her we were going snowboarding, going to the moon, or turning into mermaids, and it would be met by “Nooooo.”  Rest time is imminent.

12:52pm. It’s nap time once again. Tiny is nodding off and Littles is playing piano. She’s 3 and hasn’t had a lesson. I’m using the word “playing,” loosely. I can hear where she is while I’m putting Tiny to bed, so that’s a plus.

1:02pm. One down, one to go.

1:04pm. The battle to get Littles to go potty begins.

1:12pm. I win the potty fight. Littles is resting. As it turns out, Tiny is not asleep.

1:19pm. Tiny is down again. I hear noises from both of their rooms. It’s like sitting in a minefield.

1:26pm. Tiny is refusing to sleep, Littles doesn’t want to rest. She says she wants to poop. Funny, I’ve had that feeling for a few hours. How does it feel to want something?

1:28pm. Tiny might be on crack. She’s squealing and pounding in her crib. It sounds like she’s tunneling out. I’m going in.

1:31pm. At least someone is sleeping around here.

1:32pm. Sometimes I think Littles poops out trolls. She’s an angel now and resting wonderfully.

1:44pm. Tiny is out. She smells a bit like throw up and poop, but she is out.

1:46pm. Peace and quiet.  LET’S DO ALL THE THINGS!!! I’d like to think I’ll use this time to do something productive. I’d like to think that. The reality is, I’ll clean up the war-zone that is my house, use the bathroom, and shower so that I’ll feel like a human.

2:10pm. Rest time is over for Littles.

2:11pm. Littles offered to clean the bathroom while I showered. Bless her heart.

2:12pm. She “cleaned” for a minute. I actually think it’s more dirty. Oh well. She tried. Now she’s walking around like a herd of elephants. I hope she doesn’t wake up Tiny.

2:25pm. SO FRESH AND SO CLEAN CLEAN!!! I’m ready for the rest of the day!

2:29pm. OUTSIDE!!! Time to jump on the trampoline!

3:08pm. Everyone is up, even the cat. We’re having a ball in the sun room.

3:12pm. The wife sends a great text. She’s going to be home early! The girls and I are having snacks and listening to Elton John again. Life is good.

3:43pm. MOMMA’S HOME!!! Life is great!

3:47pm. Tiny poops her pants. WELCOME HOME MOM! Life couldn’t be better.

That obviously wasn’t the end of my day.  When the wife came home, we all played together, made dinner, went out for ice cream for Littles 3-and-a-half-year-old “birthday,” then put them to bed.  I just made that all sound easy, but it’s not; however, it’s a heck of a lot easier when the wife is here.  She’s amazing.

Today was a “dad” day for me, but tomorrow will definitely be a “human” day.  The forecast is calling for 8-10 inches of snow in the mountains, the kids are at school and day care, and the snowboard is ready.  Life is good.