She caught my eye unexpectedly again the other day. The weather was cold but uncharacteristically sunny for November in the Seattle area. We decided to make the most of it heading out on a bike ride. She’d heard of a trail at a lake a few miles from our house we went to find it.

We circled the lake and picked up the trail just a short jaunt down the road. We coursed our way through dense foliage made lush by a creek that traveled the eastern ridge of an expansive valley. We glided between dark evergreens and ferns, and thrilled watching the sun set fire to foliage from sugar maples and cherry trees whose leaves fell from the trees and blanketed the ground. It is one thing to be enjoy the beauty of your surroundings, but another thing entirely to enjoy it surrounded by someone you love.

After several miles on the trail we doubled back, stopping at the lake to chat with a kayaker and watch kids play in the park. It was in that pause that my wife caught my eye as alluringly as the first time I met her.

The chilly air and the exertion of the ride brought a blush to her cheeks, which in turn made her long and dark eyelashes more striking than usual, which brought me to the best part, her eyes. The contrast in colors, her pink cheeks and raven lashes were just accents to her emerald eyes. She was happy, awash in her surroundings, inexplicably pleased to be with me of all people, and her eyes sparkled as she smiled.

My only regret was that my little phone camera couldn’t truly capture the look in totality. It seems unlikely I will ever forget how striking she was in that moment, but I don’t trust myself. Sometimes I can’t remember why I walked into the next room. So I guess I’ll just have to rely on this little image to help me recall one of the most beautiful days of fall.

Image via Wikipedia

Brenda Lee was fifteen years old when she popularized her 1960 hit, “I’m Sorry.” My son was six years old when he popularized those words in my home.

Our refrigerator, like many others in the country, is not just a repository for tomorrow’s dinner; it’s a filing system for things we want to remember. The door of our refrigerator is cluttered with grocery lists, magnets from our kid’s elementary school reminding them of how to make better choices when conflicts arise, phone numbers, and a number of grimy handprints. Most of what’s there has either been posted so long or is so routine that it doesn’t stand out to me anywhere, thus defeating the purpose of using the refrigerator door as a reminder center.

But recently I came home and glimpsed something new that got my attention. It was an apology letter from my youngest child to my wife. My wife recounted the episode. He’d been told no about something he wanted to do and he reacted angrily; yelling, pouting, even hitting. He was sent to be by himself for a while and calm down. Sounds pretty terrible but for a six year old, it’s about what I expect, and frankly, more mature than what I see with a lot of adults.

My wife also retreated to our bedroom to make a phone while he settled down. From the corner of her eye she saw a piece of paper being slid under the door. She wrapped up her conversation and called him. He looked so contrite and penitent. She embraced him in a motherly hug. His relief was obvious. He proceeded to compliment her effusively telling her how pretty she is, and how much he loves her.

It seems like the song writers, Dub Albritton and Ronnie Self, hit the head on the nail when they penned the lyrics to “I’m Sorry,” and Brenda Lee gave the words a voice that seems to say it all for us. (You can read the lyrics below.) But Daniel lived the message more beautifully than anything I’ve seen in a while.

I’m trying to be the kind of man my son will look up to and want to become some day, but in this case, I’m going to try and become more like him.

I’m sorry, so sorry

That I was such a fool

I didn’t know Love could be so cruel

Oh, oh, oh, oh Uh-oh Oh, yes

You tell me mistakes Are part of being young

But that don’t right The wrong that’s been done

(I’m sorry) I’m sorry (So sorry) So sorry

Please accept my apology

But love is blind

And I was to blind to see

Oh, oh, oh, oh Uh-oh Oh, yes

You tell me mistakes Are part of being young

But that don’t right

The wrong that’s been done

Oh, oh, oh, oh Uh-oh Oh, yes

I’m sorry, so sorry

Please accept my apology

But love was blind

And I was too blind to see (Sorry)

The volume wasn’t on so I didn’t fully comprehend what I was seeing, but as the day wore on and the story unfolded I remember being awash in a sea of feelings. It had great impact on my wife as well. I didn’t really understand how much until many months later. I don’t remember talking about it much, although I recall feeling unsure about how to discuss it all with my daughter who was only five at the time.

For my wife, the most moving image of the events that transpired was that of the firemen raising the flag at the site of destruction. Only she could describe what it really meant to her but I suspect it was similar to what a lot of us felt, hope, faith, a reminder of what our country is supposed to stand for and its resiliency against oppression.

Karen is an artist, and I mean that in every sense of the word. She creates things in every medium, and sometimes in mediums I wouldn’t expect. Someday our lives will settle from the pace of raising children enough to let her really pursue her creative wellsprings, but in the meantime, her expressions come only at sporadic times.

The 911 story was so emotional, so visceral, that she could not contain it. Months after the 911 events she approached the local fire station and asked if they would be open to having the flag-raising scene depicted in their fire station. She worked with the chief to determine a location and the work began.

They opted for a stairwell landing because it is the one area in the fire station that the crews pass by every day and would be a frequent reminder of all that the image has to teach us. Karen proceeded to spend spare hours over the course of the next few months laying out a grid for the design, sketching in the outlines, and eventually bringing the drawings to life in color. The finished product was more than twice as tall as she is measuring a full  twelve feet tall.

She truly did the hardest work but it required a family effort. Sometimes she was able to sneak over during the day when my daughter was still at school, but if our toddling two-year old son play quietly or she couldn’t find someone to care for  him, she had to paint at night after I got home from work.

I was a newly minted principal still scrambling to learn my role and keep up with the demands of the job, and it wasn’t unusual for me to work 60-80 hours a week. Getting home in time to support the painting effort took some doing but we figured it all out and over the course of a few months, the work was accomplished.

Karen loved being n the fire station like a fly on the wall in her stairwell. There was regular foot traffic where she worked but typically the firemen were settled in to their upstairs quarters. She often told me of the interesting things that happened behind the scenes. Sometimes the fire crew was like a gang of rowdy school boys, other times more somber and sincere. They were always courteous, eager to share their dinner, or at least their recipes, and helpful with her scaffolding or other physical labor. When they were over the top with their antics and they remembered she was there they were quick to apologize and remind each other there was a lady in the house. I think she actually liked the attention. (Wouldn’t you?)

When the work was accomplished they held a ceremony to thank her for her work. They sent a fire truck to our house to pick her up. The kids were allowed to sit in it and Karen actually got to ride to the fire station where the fire chief and other city officials paid tribute. There was even some local and national press about it.

I think Karen was appreciative, but actually a little embarrassed by all the attention. That was never why she set out on the project. For her it had to do with what that picture stirred inside her. Something about its heroism, valor and patriotism had to be both expressed and preserved.

For me, remembering 911 means honoring those who died, those who lived, and those who continue to defend. Remembering 911 brings back those days of my wife acting on her artistic instincts and what that meant for our family. For me that painting isn’t just a reminder of what happened and the heroism that followed. It reminds me that we live in a free land where an artist can paint whatever she wants, where a family is free to become whatever they want, and where we can find God wherever He is.

What does remembering 911 mean for you?

I just wanted to take a minute and say thanks. I appreciate your willingness to give your time hanging out with a bunch of elementary and middle school kids teaching them how to do basic maintenance on their skateboards at the Covington library. A special nod to the teen-librarian specialist for setting it up too.

All three of my sons and one of their friends were there and they were thrilled. Probably doesn’t seem like a big deal to you but if you could have heard their chatter on the way home you’d know for sure. Not only did you teach all the kids how to assemble and tune up a skateboard, you gave it away as a drawing prize at the end! I loved the look on the face of the boy who won it. I doubt he’ll ever forget that day and he just might hold on to that skateboard his entire life as a memory.

And you didn’t have to, but you stayed late after the official session was over teaching my son how to put grip tape on his new deck. He’s saving his money to get the trucks and wheels and you can bet he’ll be buying them at your store, Gravity Sports.

He bought his last set of trucks and wheels there for the long board he bought from a neighborhood high school kid who makes them in his garage for spending money. He was pretty jazzed after his first visit to your shop.

“Dad, it’s the oldest skate shop in Washington state and the guys that work there are professional caliber skaters! They installed the equipment to make sure it was just right and they even gave me a couple of cool decals.”

After meeting you I can see why he was so excited. You’ve got a great way with kids. You don’t talk down to them, you don’t get irritated by their short attention span and random questions, and you’ve got cool stickers to hand out to boot. I’ll admit, I took one for myself.

I’m impressed by you too. I loved learning that you original plan in life was to become and English teacher, and now you make your living in skateboarding. I guess you’re kind of like Sting.

I went the other direction. When I was a kid I wanted to be a magician when I was young and I ended up being a teacher and principal. I love what I do but you made me wonder what would have happened if I’d pursued the magic thing the way you stuck with skateboarding.

It’s ironic to me that the skating community sometimes gets such a bad rap. If the rest of the skating world is anything like you, I think our kids will be okay if they’re “skaters.”

I don’t have a massive following on this blog but I’m hoping some of my readers will pass this along to the movers and shakers they know in the corporate world. I want them to take a page out of your book and give back to our kids and communities. Hang out with them, teach them what they know, and share what they do without concern for their bottom line.

Although I’m guessing that kind of giving ultimately pays off. My son is certainly a loyal customer now but I doubt his spending alone will make up for the $150 skateboard you gave away. Maybe he’ll tell his friends, and the other kids from the library class will come in to shop too.

It’s funny when you think about it. American business taking a page out of the textbook on corporate citizenship from a counter-culture, little independent skate shop in Renton, Washington. Maybe that’s why your shop’s been around for thirty-five years and still going.

I don’t think the pay-off is why you gave your time and talent to those kids though. I think you love skateboarding and love sharing it with others. Maybe that’s why you didn’t feel less-than-anything when that kid asked if you were professionally sponsored.

“Nope, are you?” you teased a little. And then you brought the message home. “I skate for fun! Do you skate for fun?”

I don’t know how much skateboard maintenance that kid will remember from your class but if he learned anything, I hope he learned that the important thing in life is to forget about the money and do what you love. Maybe the money will follow, and maybe not. But ultimately, who cares?

Thanks again Mike. I hope this post doesn’t seem too sappy but as a dad I’m so grateful for the memorable father-son outing you provided for me and my boys, and for the example you set for the rest of the world that day.

Sincerely,

Big Daddy

“Knock it off before I smack your face off! Do you see the look on your mother’s face? She doesn’t like the rowdiness at the dinner table and she definitely doesn’t like that word. It doesn’t sound polite.”

I’m kind of like Fox News; fair and balanced.

I leaned in close to Ethan going face to face and just for good measure added, “And if you make mom unhappy I’m going to be unhappy. And if I’m unhappy I’m going to make sure you guys are miserable.”

I saw that in a movie once. I’ve developed a lot of my parenting moves from great cinema. I call it “Star-Power Parenting.”

I probably acted so tough and mean because not only did I want my boys to know I meant business, I had to make sure my wife bought it too. The truth is, I was struggling not to join in on the giggle-fest. Some words have that effect on you and poop-snitch is one of them. Try it tonight at your house and you’ll see what I mean.

You won’t find poop-snitch on dictionary.com. It came into utterance during the 2011 Man Week Melee at the Talbert house. My wife and daughter were both gone for the week at a church girl’s summer camp, and when the women  are gone it becomes an official man-week at our house.

Man week includes a full array of masculine marauding including excessive applications of Axe body spray, roasting hot dogs over an open fire, frozen pizza, staying up as late as we want, watching unrestricted numbers of Scooby Doo re-runs, and skipping the formality of pajamas to sleep just in our underwear. This includes a lot of posing body-builder style giving special tribute to the superheroes emblazoned on the butt-side of said underwear.

Baths are skipped in lieu of who contests to see who can develop the thickest level of grime on the bottom of his feet, butt-scratching is encouraged, and punching the guy who just walked by just because is rewarded not reprimanded.

During the 2011 Man Week Summer Slam we were driving home from one of the boy’s baseball games and they were entertaining themselves with a hardy round of car-spotting-brother-beating. I think most homes call this “Slug-Bug,” wherein the first person to sight a Volkswagen Beetle (euphemistically referred to as a Bug) calls out “Slug-Bug!” and punches the person closest to them.

My boys have appropriated this game with a number of their own variations. At our house it’s called “Bingo” and the target has been broadened to be any yellow car. This of course increases the opportunity to slap your sibling, especially during airport runs when taxis are more prevalent.

“Blooper” has been assigned to airplane sightings which makes perfect sense when you realize that we live parallel to the Sea-Tac airport in-bound flight pattern, and our town has a municipal airport to boot. In other words, we see a lot of airplanes, and we deliver a lot of blooper-beatings.

When I say “we” I mean to say “they.” I am after all the mature adult in the house who sets the example and wouldn’t diminish his dignity with such silliness.

Apparently yellow cars and airplanes didn’t create enough of a target-rich environment because on the way home from the aforementioned baseball game “poop-snitch” became the call sign for pick-up trucks. Not just any truck. Truck canopies are an automatic disqualifier as are semi-trailers, panel rigs, box trucks, etc. It wouldn’t be reasonable to leave the terms so broad that anything with a hemi engine qualified. I mean, we still have opposable thumbs, a trait which requires us to maintain some level of civility.

I smirked to myself watching the game of poop-snitch evolve as we drove home. You have to admit, just saying the word makes you feel as funny as secretly releasing flatulence and watching the guy next to you take the rap. It’s just plain funny.

Try saying it over and over a few times. Poop-snitch, poop-snitch, poop-snitch, poop-snitch, poop-snitch, poop-snitch. It’s not long before you find yourself making grinning from ear to ear while you make a song out that one little word. Talk about a gift that keeps on giving.

And giving is exactly what the boys did the entire drive home.

Poop-snitch… Pow!

Poop-snitch… Pow!

And then it happened. The six-year old let out a wail the started low and slow and built up like a 50’s vintage police siren.

“WaaaaaaaAAAAAAH!”

The game had gone too far. It sounded like Daniel but I checked the rearview mirror just to be sure. And there he was, mouth wide open, screeching like a banshee, and a steady stream of blood running from his nose, down his chin and spreading wide across his shirt as it dripped to his chest.

The next thing I noticed was the look of terror in Ethan’s eyes. Obviously he’d delivered the offending blow and he was afraid for his life. Not from fraternal retribution, but from dad’s delivery of a sweeping strike across the back seat.

You would have been proud of me. Not only did I not hammer the entire backseat of boys; I didn’t even raise my voice. In an uncharacteristic flash of reason I told myself that it would be hypocrisy to spank the boys for hitting each other.

It was like I was in the eye of the hurricane. Daniel screeching and bleeding; Ethan clambering around the back of the car to find a rag, eventually stripping off his jacket to use as a sponge; and Jake working overtime to help Daniel calm down. There was chaos all around me and I just sat there.

I gritted my teeth and turned the radio up to drown out the sound of crying. Why should I let a great Tom Petty song go to waste just because my boys were busy proving that it’s always funny until someone gets hurt.

“We’ve only got two miles left, he’s not going to bleed to death, the upholstery is dark so it’s unlikely Karen will notice the blood unless she goes all CSI on me, they’re clearly punishing themselves far worse than I would just worrying about what I might do,” I told myself.

So I drove the last two miles up the 6% grade that leads to our house feeling victorious about my newly tapped vein of self-control, and re-wrote the lyrics to “Break Down” in myhead

“It’s all right if you poop-snitch

It’s all right if you don’t

I’m not afraid of you poop-snitching away

Honey, I get the feeling you won’t”

It seemed like an awesome idea at the time. The worst ideas usually do. On the last day of a recent vacation in California’s gold country we drove to a nearby state park in the oddly named lake area of “Glory Hole.” The founders of this area were obviously born liars because no one would describe this man-made, non-descript lake as glorious. A hole maybe, but not glorious.

It was not without redeeming features though. The roads in this state park were a twist of slopes and valleys that wound their way around the lake making for awesome roller coaster effects even in our lumbering suburban… if you drove fast enough.

Even better was the road surface. Fresh black top, with no wrinkles or rough spots running mile after curvaceous mile. It struck me as the perfect place for my son to put his newly built skateboard through its paces.

He bought the deck about a year ago from a neighbor kid who enjoyed making them in his garage. Another year later and he’d saved up enough money to buy the trucks and wheels. He badgered my wife every day after the school year was over to take him to the skate shop, Gravity Sports, in Renton, purportedly the oldest skate shop in Washington State.

“And the guy that runs it used to be a professional skater dad,” my son reported to me almost whispering his reverence for the proprietors coolness. They guy was pretty cool, installing the equipment on my son’s skateboard at no charge and even throwing in a couple of decals for the bottom of his board.

This skateboard is what is technically known as a long board, designed specifically for cruising distances. No tricks, no speed contests, just comfortable conveyance. As a man whose favorite car in life thus far was a ’93 Lincoln town Car, this boy was a chip off the old block.

“Jake, how would you like to skate these hills while we follow along behind you in the car?” I suggested.

He could hardly believe his ears. Was his stodgy, safety-first father really suggesting he cruise the open road on his skateboard?

I assured him it was a legitimate proposal but told him to hurry up and get his pads and helmet on. We had two other cars in our caravan behind us; Karen’s brother and family in one car, and her parents in another. I didn’t want them to have to wait too long as it was scorching hot outside and I was sure the other kids were anxious to jump in the lake.

I figured if we stayed right behind him it was a reasonably safe plan. We could see well ahead for any oncoming traffic, and with two cars in our own group behind me I wasn’t too worried about rearward vehicles.

Jake took off down the hill and the smile on his face told me I’d made the right call. He was cruising about ten miles an hour according to my speedometer, a nice clip for an eleven-year old. It wasn’t long before he reached the bottom of the hill and had to start dropping his left leg to kick backward and propel himself forward. Going up the next hill was a much slower venture.

The next thought should not have occurred to me, and in hindsight, I should not have acted on it, but I stepped on the accelerator to outpace sound reason and pulled up next to my son.

“Hang on to the side of car and I’ll tow you along.”

“Really?” my son marveled at this clear breach of a father’s wisdom.

I partly blame my wife for what happened next. Everybody knows she’s the better half of our relationship and I am frequently reminded that I married up. So it stands to reason that she should have pulled the plug on this scheme. But she didn’t, and therefore bears significant responsibility for what happened next.

Jake grabbed on to the side of the car and I slowly accelerated building up to speeds of 10-15 miles per hour. This was smooth sailing and you could feel the enthusiasm building with my other kids in the car as they watched this family version of daredevilness. My son was practically splitting his helmet with his ear-to-ear smile and I was grinning smugly to myself.

“Yep, this definitely cements my place in the school of cool for dads,” I proudly assured myself.

As we approached the top of the hill it occurred to me that he wouldn’t need the car to tow him down the other side… especially if I could give him enough of a boost when he let go of the car.

I laid out the plan as we climbed the rest of the hill.

“Jake, I’m going to speed up just a little when we get to the top and then you let go when I tell you. You’ll be able to slingshot your way forward and really tear it up when you go down the hill.”

“It’ll be like the Apollo 13 re-entering the atmosphere,” I explained to my wife recalling the thrilling rescue plan of the near fatal flight.

I should have recognized the fear in his eyes and aborted the mission. I didn’t. As we hit the crest of the hill I gunned it a little and yelled for Jake to let go. He was fine for about a millisecond and then the combination of nerves and speed got to him and he got the shakes. In an instant he was gone, flashing out of my sight as he crashed.

That’s when I panicked. I couldn’t see him and realized he might well have rolled under the car. A surge of fear, shame, remorse and adrenaline flooded my central nervous system and I hit the brakes praying I wouldn’t feel the thud of my son under my wheels.

God was merciful to a foolish father that day and my son’s life was spared, but not without a serious case of road burn on his hands, knees and hips. Once he stopped rolling he sprang up and started hopping up and down spastically as his body went through its own surge of adrenaline. He started walking around trying to shake off the panic and pain brought on by the crash and made his way to the car.

He climbed in and started peeling off his pads to examine his injuries. I’m not sure how many times I apologized to him for perpetuating such a stupid stunt. I am grateful that he was forgiving and I admired him for insisting that he was okay enough to get back out on his skateboard, albeit without the assist of our automobile.

I’d like to chalk up my poor judgment to genetics. After sharing the story with my brothers who visited us not long after this incident, they shared their own stories of daddy-dumbness. They recalled their own experiences with our dad, the most memorable of which involved push-starting a stranded motorist by having his kids lie down on the hood of the car, arms extended to push to other car while he accelerated. They obviously survived that one.

I’ve shared the story with a few other folks. Turns out stupid-dad stunts aren’t exclusive to my family tree. Everyone I’ve talked to shared their own stories of the moronic moves either they or their fathers have made.

So I’m guessing you’ve probably seen a few stupid stunts of your own. I hope you’ll share the best ones with the rest of us.

I wasn’t sure if she was pulling my leg but my wife and another woman chimed in commiserating with her complaint.

“I’d rather avoid the whole thing,” Karen commented.

“It’s such a painful reminder,” our other friend added.

“Of what?” I asked.

“Of all the things we aren’t doing as mothers,” they chimed, practically in unison.

And what followed was an extended conversation on all the things they wish they did better as mothers.

I was genuinely taken aback. All three of these ladies are women I admire, two from a distance, and one up close in my home, for the hundreds of things I see them do as mothers. Taking their kids (and their kids friends) to the science center for weekend field trips, teaching them how to dance, making every birthday special with cakes stylish enough for a photo shoot, and the list goes on.

At the top of that lists is the way I see them interact with their kids. Usually patient, typically playful, always doting and adulatory with love and affection. And yet these ladies are apparently engaged in a steady internal dialogue with themselves about their inadequacies.

I tried to counter their sentiments saying that the day isn’t supposed to be about what you aren’t. It’s about what you are. Good, mediocre or ugly, all moms merit at least one day of tribute. My friends weren’t buying it.

At church today one of the speakers echoed their sentiments. She is another of the mothers I hold in high regard, raising nine children in her blended family brood. Her kids are all well-heeled and highly accomplished, humble and well-regarded by their peers and the parents of their peers. And yet a central tenet of this mom’s message was that she feels like she falls short in comparison to the women around her.

I have my own issues with Mother’s Day. So much of what I hear in people’s attempts to honor mothers sounds more like an obituary of the beleaguered than a send-up to matriarchs. Maybe that’s the problem. In our efforts to extol a mother’s virtues, we make long lists of all the drudgeries we see women slog through and essentially pillory moms as martyrs.

Stripes come in all fashions. Some lashed from whippings, and others pinned on the sleeve as a plaudit. We’ve got to stop praising motherhood by virtue of its punishment and revel in it for its wonder. Yes, motherhood, parenting, is hard work. It’s a confusing, emotional march from the moment of conception to the day they finally move out. (And stay out, returning only to visit, if we’re lucky.).

But motherhood… parenting, isn’t a punishment. It’s a privilege. And more often than not, a pleasant one.

So every year we make lists about mega-moms that read like the best-of lists articles find in travel and restaurant magazines. “Top Ten Ocean Drives on the West Coast,” or “The Best Jambalaya Joints to Really Make You Jump,” “Mistakes that Really Good Moms Never Make.”

The problem with making lists of all the sacrifices and service, or even the joys and jubilations is that it distracts from what really counts. Lists amount to keeping score, and keeping score only creates winners… and losers. Parenting… motherhood or fatherhood, shouldn’t be about keeping score.

 So I listened to my wife and our friends talk about their guilt and I silently wondered if that sort of deviation from rectitude was endemic specifically to Mormons, Catholics and Jews, or just an inescapable foible of human nature.

And then today I talked to another friend. I shared the “Mother’s Day Lament” conversation and thankfully, she couldn’t have disagreed more. Her take was essentially that the day was about giving kids a chance to express their love for their moms their own way, whether picking bouquets of dandelions, coloring a Garfield picture just for mom, or making a coupon book for services like room cleanings that are unlikely to ever be redeemed. Ironically, her point is that Mother’s Day ultimately ends up being more about the kids than the mothers.

So after thinking all of this through I’ve decided that for me, honoring mothers should be more about recognizing their influence than a list of things they’ve done. My mom’s greatest influence on me was a love for learning. Our relationship was never one of schmoopy kissy-faces or huddled up around the hearth for an evening of fresh-baked cookies and a lot of remember-whens. But it was steeped in a constant exposure to books, ideas and debate.  What mom learned, we learned.

When she developed an interest in art and architecture, guess who got to see every example of architecture she could find? We lived in Italy at the time so that meant that every time we took a trip she made us stop at the piazza of every town we drove through, from Rome to Rimini, to explore the local church and museums. I hated her for it at the time. We’d approach a cathedral and she’d rattle off the column structure from Doric to Greco-whatever, and then we’d head inside and look at gilded Virgin Mary paintings from medieval days to the Renaissance. And there would be quizzes. Odious exams on what we’d learned about what she’d said. We learned it was easier to master the content for recital than to listen to the lecture again. I hated it because I was young and even stupider then than I am now. I was growing up in Europe in the cradle of Western civilization and resenting her efforts to get me to appreciate it. What an imbecile. But fortunately for me she persisted.

I don’t think these excursions were so much about her determination to ensure her kids grew up with a healthy liberal arts background as much as it was her insistence that we share in her own interests and participate.  I guess every parent does that at some level. Some parents inculcate their kids with the art of American Idol and the architecture of the mall. Mine shared with me the greatest contributions history has to offer. They would have done that no matter where we lived. If we’d spent our lives in Omaha I would have learned all about the history of homesteaders, the science of agriculture and the influence of the mid-western work ethic. We would have taken family trips across the plains stopping to examine the architecture of every log cabin that was still standing. My mom would have persisted in her insatiable desire to learn and instilled the same in me no matter where we lived.

My wife also does a lot as a mother, much of it worthy of the lists of mothering lore. Birthdays always arrive with a handcrafted invitation, a custom cake, and a party experience that leaves everyone, party-goers and their parents, knowing they’re the most important person in the world. Halloween and Easter are inevitably ushered in with hand-sewn costumes and outfits. She reads with them, plays ping pong on the kitchen table, helps with homework. My wife does a lot as a mother, true, but she doesn’t do it all. The kids have to make their own breakfast and lunch; in addition to our dog, cat and chickens, we have a fine collection dust bunnies; sometimes she yells and I think she’s even missed a couple of their concerts. But the last words I hear out of my kid’s mouths every night is, “Do you promise you’ll check on me?” Because checking on them means lying in bed with them, telling stories, tickling, and talking about what matters most to them.

It’s not just that she shares her time that matters. A lot of parents spend time with their kids, attend their events, and make sure they have nifty parties. But showing up is not enough. It’s what you do while you’re there. I’ve seen more than one parent discredit themselves by how they act at their child’s event. They spend all their time talking to the other parents instead of playing with their kids at the party, or they go to the game and scream at the referee instead of cheering on their child.  No, it’s not just about showing up.

With Karen it’s not about whether or not she shows up. It’s how she makes our kids feel. She exudes love, acceptance, and safety. She takes in everything they’ve got, and then gives it back better than it was. She reminds me of the Savior.

Like so many moms, Jesus fell short on a lot of lists too. He was criticized for keeping the Sabbath the wrong way, healing the wrong people, keeping bad company. For the people keeping lists… keeping score, Jesus was a loser. But ultimately, he came off the victor. He took everything in, took it all upon himself, and gave us back better than we were.

I’m sure my wife will keep making awesome costumes and churning out awesome parties. She loves doing that stuff. But that’s not what will count when our kids are old enough to really appreciate their mother. They’ll love her because she loved them first, she forgave them, she healed them, she taught them how to love others by serving them.

So I guess I’m wishing you all an Un-Happy Mother’s Day. Un-happy about the lists, for the losing score in a game you’ll never win, the things you haven’t done, aren’t going to do, and will definitely do wrong. But I wish you a truly Happy Mother’s Day. Happy for the influence you have, for the legacy you leave, and for the love you give.

I think my folks made the right call, especially when I watch what happens with kids whose parents who are more assertive in “prompting” their children to make decisions aligned with their own wishes. Working in schools for the last twenty years I’ve seen this a lot, especially in the world of athletics, but music and academia have not been exempt either.

So I have three or four priorities for my kids. Most important is they grow up developing a spiritual foundation that will fortify them throughout the journeys life will send them on. I’d also like them to develop a more health-conscious lifestyle than I’ve lived most of my life. That one involves a lot of retrofitting given my late start on healthy choices. It’s not too late though.

Ironically, as an educator I only have one goal for my kids related to learning. They have to be able to read. They don’t have to like it, although if I had the power to force anything on them, that one would tempt me most. At a minimum they have to be able to break down the symbolic code of letters, phonics, fluency and comprehension. Reading is the gateway to everything. It’s not the only thing, but it is seminal and it supports my other goals for them. It’s tough to learn how to be like Jesus if you can’t read what he said and did. Healthy choices? Reading counts. And math, science, every other discipline… ya gotta read.

So I was particularly pleased the other day when my son opened up a letter from his eye doctor. It was a standard form they send all of their patients reminding them that it’s time for a check-up. They obviously don’t pay attention to the age of the people they’re mailing letters to. Every kid in my house gets the same letter whether they’re fifteen or five, whether they’ve learned to read yet or not.

Ethan, like every kid, was excited to get mail. He didn’t care who it was from. Kids never do. You have to become an adult before you learn to disdain the catalogs, post cards, and windowed envelopes we euphemistically refer to as “junk.” I listened as Ethan read his letter out loud. Every word of it. He stumbled on one of the big words but took a breath and made a second run at it, conquering every syllable.

“I think they’re saying they want me to come back,” he explained when he was done.

“I think you’re right,” I said. “What do you think of that?”

“I like that doctor dad,” he exclaimed. He went on. “Plus you get to wear those cool glasses.”

“What’s so cool about them?” I had to ask.

“Well, other people can’t see your eyes when you wear them,” he said with a grin. “Daniel hates that. He gets mad when he can’t see my eyes. I love wearing those glasses.”

Daniel is his younger brother. Dark glasses that satisfy a seven-year old’s sense of style, and satiate the innate desire to irritate your brother. Double-bonus.

But the past part of that experience for me was seeing the evidence of my third child as literate. I especially enjoyed the irony of him reading a letter from a doctor who wanted to make sure his eyes are working right. Tasty irony.

Every six months The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints (Mormon) conducts its semiannual conference wherein for two days special messages are shared by way of encouragement, guidance, consolation, and commandment. For those who are attuned and prepared to receive such teaching, it is truly a remarkable experience. Thanks to 21^st century technology and tools like social media, it is even more profound than ever before.

In the New Testament we read of Jesus addressing a crowd of 5,000 on a hillside, or “mount.” The best technology of the time was a loud voice projected from an elevated position. For thousands of years before and since then, when it was necessary to teach a large number of people there were few choices; gather a crowd, send out emissaries, or write it down and pass it around. As little as fifty years ago when my parents first joined the church those were still the only choices available if you wanted to hear the Lord’s servants at these special occasions. You either traveled to Salt Lake City where the conference is conducted, or waited for the church to publish the talks in a magazine.

Eventually the conference came to be broadcast on radio and television allowing those who couldn’t travel to participate in real-time, if you had access to the broadcast signal. Because my father worked for the Department of Defense, I grew up in Italy where the broadcast wasn’t received so we got the message the same way it had been delivered for decades.

Today, even though I don’t subscribe to cable or satellite TV, I can listen to the Lord’s servants anywhere I want thanks to affordable and pervasive technology. Whether I stream it online at home or use my phone, I can easily tune in. And I can download audio/video files to carry with me to revisit as often I choose on my phone, iPod or television.

This year the conference experience became a little more special to me thanks to the options technology give us to have a common experience. In a manner of speaking, I also watched with my brother back in Missouri. Throughout the sessions we texted back and forth with comments and insights about the speakers and their messages. I watched with other people as well thanks to the tools of social media. I monitored the #ldsconf hash tag on Twitter throughout the sessions to share similar conversations with people from around the world. These were people I have never, and am unlikely to ever meet, and yet friendships and association were started and expanded as we communed in this electronic meeting forum. I found new “friends,” or new people to follow and some of them reciprocated.

I am thrilled to live in a time when these experiences and relationships are possible: a time where the sermon has moved from being preached on the mount… to the social experience of the media of our day. And I wonder what they will be like in the future as innovation continues to enhance our spiritual experiences with each other.

What about you? How has your life been spiritually enhanced by the tools of today?

My high school age daughter brought a friend because by now, spending the entire day in the exclusive company of her family is tolerable at best. The boys are still young enough to find the family fun in its own right.

We parked at a hotel down the street from the capital building and caught the free shuttle called “The Dash.” The bus ride alone would have probably justified the whole day for the boys which included getting to pull the rope signaling the driver to let us off at the next stop.

The campus was thronged with large crowds inside and out. The morning was dominated by several union groups protesting bills they felt infringed on their worker’s rights, and the afternoon saw education and child advocacy groups gathered on the front steps making speeches, singing songs, and all the other activities of organized crowds trying to draw attention to their cause.

In the afternoon I attended the hearing on the bill I was opposing and I took my oldest son with me. He’s working on a scout merit badge that required him to observe a meeting where a controversial topic was being discussed and figure out what each side was saying. The hearing was a lengthy one and he eventually fell asleep but he was surprisingly cogent in his analysis of the issue. I enjoyed having him with me and explaining how the proceedings worked, who the players were, and of course, letting him see his old man stick up for what he believed in.

We spent the rest of the afternoon touring the capital building. It really is a remarkable edifice and is reputed as one of the more beautifully conceived buildings of government in the country. As stately and eloquent as the building was, a more compelling highlight for the kids was when one of the docents at the tour desk gave each of them a quarter with Washington State’s logo. He explained to them that if they spun the quarter while it was standing on its edge it would appear that only one side was showing. That kept them busy for several minutes trying to replicate the experiment. While the boys spun their quarters I watched a group of about fifteen teenagers dressed in some sort of uniform, quietly praying aloud together in a nearby alcove of the capital steps. I didn’t get close enough to hear but I imagined it was some plea to the heavens to bless our elected leaders with divine wisdom.

Eventually we made our way back to the car and started to drive home. The kids were quiet, tired from a long day of walking and sightseeing. I turned on the radio and the first song to play was Neil Young’s “Rocking in the Free World.” It seemed a fitting soundtrack to the closing credits of our day observing the workings of democracy in a free society.

Eventually I changed stations to listen to the news. The lead story was the riots taking place in Egypt. As I listened to the saga of a beleaguered people weary of 30 years of despotic rule, fighting to for personal freedoms I thought back on our day and was reminded of how much I take our democratic freedoms for granted.

My day was made possible by a government holiday celebrating the founders and defenders of our democracy. This holiday afforded me the opportunity to speak directly with my elected officials and voice my oppositional views on the decisions they were making. I saw hundreds of people protesting their government, peacefully, but vociferously. I freely wandered the inner sanctums of the institutions of my state government.

I spent my entire day free to pursue happiness according to the dictates of my own conscience. I thought aout how I married the woman of my choosing, work in the field of my preference, my children are educated free of charge, and I worship where and when I want. As I mused over my circumstances I felt a debt of gratitude to those who made it all possible; Revolutionaries who had the courage to risk everything to provide my freedom, soldiers who have defended my rights for over two hundred years, and citizens who contribute to our democratic cause either by election or activism.

I went to bed that night clenched with feelings for my family, my Heavenly Father, and my country. And I whispered a prayer that my brothers and sisters in Egypt and elsewhere in the world would soon savor the blessings of freedom I’d been enjoying all day.