Luca has outgrown the color pink. That’s what happens when one has a little tomboy in them and leaves Kindergarten and Dora the Explorer behind.

Our chat lead to Luca asking me about what I used to carry to school. I went to garage and pulled out a number of bags I’ve used over the years.  Here are three of my favorites:

The black bag in front is the one I currently carry to work each day and have owned for three years. It has the most features, is the best-made, and most conservative bag I’ve carried. It’s also expensive by my standards. But the last bag of similar quality lasted me for 10 years so I feel like it’s a good investment. It has several compartments, my favorite of which holds my sunglasses case. The handles and shoulder strap are covered in high quality leather and the fabric is made of ballistic nylon which means it’s nearly impossible to rip or scratch. It’s made by Tumi and I expect it will last for many years.

The green and beige messenger bag is made by Timbuk2 which is a little San Francisco shop that’s famous for making some of the best bike messenger bags you can buy. I bought this bag in 2000 when I worked in downtown Seattle and rode a Xootr kick scooter around the city. I needed a bag that fit over my shoulder that I could fasten to my waist. And since this is Seattle, it had to be waterproof. My favorite features of the bag are the two Velcro fasteners (not seen in picture) that secure the large flap without having to secure the straps. The bag is very well-made but not ideal for carrying around anything heavier than a book or two and and iPod. I paid about $65 for the bag and it still looks brand new after ten years.

The last bag is my leather messenger bag I purchased in Germany in 1987. It has the fewest features of any bag I’ve owned. It also requires a lot of maintenance. Over the years, I’ve rubbed many containers of mink oil into the thick leather which keeps it soft and waterproof. I’ve had to take it to a number of shoe repair shops to have a seam or two stitched up. When I carried it around the University of Utah campus, my friends called it the ‘man-purse’.

My kids were not sure what to make of it when I showed them how I wore it around my neck and over one shoulder. I told them how I carried this bag from door to door as a missionary. It was just large enough to hold four Books of Mormon, my wallet and Geistliche Ausweis (license to preach).

This bag is one of my most priceless possessions. I had it with me during some of the darkest times of my life, but also during some of the most joyful. It’s full of personality. Like the large scratch across the back that came when I removed it just in time to swing and stun a dog that had been chasing me down the block. I carried letters from my parents and grandparents in the front pocket. It wasn’t uncommon for me to read those letters while taking the train from one city to the next, and they provided a much needed boost when I needed it.

I was surprised to see my kids demeanor change. They were no longer making fun of this strange looking and well-worn leather bag. I retrieved a rag and mink oil from my drawer and began rubbing the oil into the bag  just as I did 23 years ago.

I remember wanting it for my birthday, but having to wait a few weeks later for Christmas when my parents and grandfather would send extra money. I got to know the local shop owner well because I checked often to make sure the bag was still in stock while I saved for it. On the day the check from my father arrived, I rushed to the bank to exchange it into German Marks, but the dollar had weakened due to Black Monday. I went by the shop to ask the owner if he’d hold the bag for a few more weeks. I believe I had about 100 Marks and the bag was priced at 140 or about $80.

At the time, I carried a backpack I’d used during my first year of college. It was in decent shape, but I wanted something I could fling over my shoulder. I found wearing a backpack over a suit jacket was an awkward mix. I also wanted to integrate myself into the German culture a little more,  and wearing a bright blue American-made nylon backpack wasn’t helping with that.

The shop owner began asking me questions. My German was poor and my companion had to translate most of our conversation. I explained that I was sent to Germany to teach about Christ, and find opportunities to give service. He took the bag off the shelf and handed it to me. I began to explain that I would give him 50 Marks to hold the bag until I was able to come up with the remainder. He took the 50 Marks and said something to my companion.  As we walked out of the store, he explained the store owner had sold the bag to me at his cost.

I couldn’t tell if I was supposed to pull over, so I slowed down until he began pointing towards a side street. I didn’t have time to flip on my right blinker, but I made a slow right turn, drove 20 yard before pulling over to the right side of the street.

But where was the other officer? Don’t they work in pairs? I checked my rearview mirror assuming the officer who motioned for me to turn would be coming up from behind me. But he wasn’t. Soon other cars were passing me on the left and proceeding down the street.

No ticket. Just a detour. One that would turn my 60 minute commute home into twice that. And this was the only thing that turned in my favor this week.

As much as I enjoy playing basketball and racquetball, my body pays the price for the rest of the week. I feel great during the games, but I find it difficult to sleep through the aches on pains. The injuries would hardly be worth mentioning if I were in my 20’s. But seemingly insignificant muscle strains have a way of lingering once I hit 40.

Ever felt your life was out of sync? That’s how I’ve felt this week, and the injuries to my hand and foot seem to flair up when I’m trying to fall asleep. During these times I tend to seek out my headphones and music to take my mind off my ailments.

But tonight Kim was playing the piano and the kids had gathered around to listen. Luca asked me to rub her feet which I do while she reads a book. It’s not long before Lincoln and Anna join us in various positions on our small,  uncomfortable couch. Lincoln proudly tells us he’s memorized our home telephone number, and proceeds to recite five numbers that appear to be chosen at random.

We listen to Kim practice a few more song until she pulls out a song I’ve not heard her play for many months: Pat Metheny’s Letter From Home. It’s a mixture of melancholy and beauty and could not be a more appropriate song for how I feel. The song is short yet each note is played with reverence.

I’ve had friends lift my spirit before. And certainly our children have provided laugher or just the perfect amount of goofiness to lighten the mood.

Tonight Kim did it with music.

It’s easy to come up with excuses for why I shouldn’t play basketball. I have a weak ankle that I’ve rolled half a dozen times. My big toe is in constant pain for two days after I play. And last year I sustained a back injury that didn’t subside until I gave up all athletics for two months. I’ve broken bones and ripped off my knee cap playing soccer in the rain when I slid over a sprinkler. Yet those felt like a paper cut compared to the back pain. 

I wish I could say I always feel better after I play. I supposed I feel better knowing that I got in some high intensity exercise. But my body creaks and aches until Tuesday rolls around again and the court calls my name. I just can’t turn down a game of basketball no matter how hard I try. I love the game although I’m a very average player for how much I’ve played.

When I was in college, I would jog downtown to the Deseret Gym from the University of Utah. It was only a couple of miles, but then I’d play basketball for two to three hours. Four to six days a weeks. I can’t fathom doing that today.

Sports can be deceptive. My mind tells me that I should be able to drive the full length of the court and weave my way into the lane and knock down a jumper. I can picture myself doing that because I was able to it for so many years. Now, I’ll defer to a younger player to bring the ball up the court while I search for an open spot behind the three point line. I’m the Rasheed Wallace of the community gym. I’m the guy that doesn’t look like he could throw the ball in the ocean. But I can knock down a three if left unguarded. More than once I’ve heard opposing players say, “No way is that old guy going to beat us”. 

This got me thinking that maybe my mind is not aging at the same rate as my body. My mind can recall the days of playing day after day along with the moves and shots I took for so many years. I wish my mind would sync up with my body in that sense.

Two weeks ago I decided to take up a less demanding sport in golf which I’ve not played in years. I woke up early to hit a bucket of balls at the driving range in preparation for the round my friend scheduled two days later. Given how long it’s been since I played, I was thrilled with how well I hit the ball. I felt like I was turning back the clock, and that maybe, I’d found a sport that I could perform as well at 42 as I did at 24.

Until I woke up the next morning with acute pain in my thumb from holding the club incorrectly.

I wonder if I should buy myself a jumpsuit and a pair of Mephistos and take up mall walking.

Until I headed off to college, I had a closer relationship with my mother than my father. Although my father coached me during the four years I attended high school, we didn’t talk about much outside of sports. My father got to know me, the student-athlete. But I’m not sure he knew me off the court.

When I needed a sounding board, I went to my mother. I can’t imagine how many nights I came home late from a date, and my mom was there to greet me. If she wasn’t too tired, I’d coax her into letting me cut an orange into smaller pieces and sprinkle powdered sugar over it. We’d sit across the table from each other and chat. We didn’t stop until my father awoke from the laughter and sent us to bed.

I’m not exactly sure when the relationship changed.

Years would pass. I served a mission in Germany. Returned to get married and finish college. Eventually I took a job in Seattle and became the only sibling to move further than an hour away from my parents.

Seattle is different than Ogden, Utah. I felt like I could be myself. I no longer felt the pressure to act or speak a certain way. I even got my ear pierced. Of course it was the first thing my father noticed the next time we got together in Salt Lake City. But he respected my decisions even if he didn’t agree with them.

Yet, there’s a part of me that feels my mother isn’t quite sure what to make of my life. And that’s why I’m writing this as I attempt to make sense of the two relationships that are closest to me outside of my spouse and children.

My desire to come to terms with my feelings has taken a turn into complex and murky waters because my mother suffered a stroke about two months ago.

And now I stand on the outside looking in and wondering if I missed my opportunity to once again connect with my mother. What I’ve learned about strokes leaves me feeling part discouraged, part hopeful. Nobody really knows how the brain will respond and what percentage of normal she’ll return to. There are no quick fixes.

Despite our differences, I will appreciate whatever percentage of her returns. She’s able to move around with a cane and her speech is slowly returning.

And just maybe I don’t need to examine our relationship to they extent of putting a stamp of approval on it that we’d both agree on.  I wouldn’t change my mother and I don’t believe she’d change me.

I guess what I want is the chance to spend one more evening sitting across the table from her, chatting until my father puts a stop to it.

I figured Kai would realize I didn’t need his help before running off to the play area to meet up with his brother and sisters. But he stayed at my side watching my every move.

I handed him a bag containing the last few stakes. He’d smile and pull one out when asked. This went on until we’d made our way to the tent’s entrance and the final loop without a stake.

This time I handed Kai the hammer. He spent the next five minutes slowly tapping the stake into the ground. He used both hands and took a break every third swing or so. I considered lending a hand, but decided to watch instead. This feisty little 2-year old with floppy blonde hair. Makes me wonder if I provided the same mix of joy and frustration to my parents when I was his age.

When he could not longer see the head of the stake, he handed the hammer to me and said, “All done, dad”.

As I drove home alone this evening, I thought about the many interactions I’ve had with my kids over the past ten days I’ve had off work. We spent one afternoon picking blueberries and another at the children’s museum in Seattle. We went Rollerblading together and spent a couple of hours at an arcade playing pinball and Skee Ball.

But the small experiences like I had with Kai weave together to form the best parts of fatherhood.  I wish I had another 10 day off work to spend with them.

I don’t understand the colors either. It’s as if every piece of clothing is working overtime to make me look like a UPS driver. How many shades of brown are there? I don’t know but Old Navy continues to drum up new ones each year just to “keep it fresh”.

I’m not here to talk about Old Navy fashions. I’m at that age where I’ll never understand what teens are wearing which means I can’t be far from chasing them off my lawn.  But today we decided to knock out some school clothes shopping at Overlake Mall.

I entered the Old Navy pushing an empty stroller with Kai trailing. Without notice, I heard a woman’s voice boom, “WELCOME TO OLD NAVY!!” as if she was coming from a megaphone. I looked around wondering where that came from until I noticed a women standing at least 30 yards away, folding clothes at the register.

This is where things got awkward.

The employee with an amazing set of pipes waved in my general direction, and I wasn’t sure what the proper response should be. I wasn’t sure if I should cup my hands and scream back or act like I’m deaf. She was standing so far away I began to wonder if the greeting originated somewhere else. Did I trip an auto-greeting like those found at the McDonald’s drive-thru that attempt to push new menu items? “Would you like to try a 20 piece McNugget meal and one of our new strawberry banana smoothies? Order when you’re ready”.

I didn’t want to scare my kids or damage their hearing so I went with the friendly wave into space. I performed one of those waves you see at Miss American pageants that’s directed at everybody yet nobody.

I’ll bet Old Navy has a policy where each person who enters the store must be greeted no matter where the employee is positioned. I’ve experienced this at Supercuts. I’ll be in the chair getting my hair cut, and a customer will come through the door just in time for my stylist to greet them from across the store.  “Welcome to Supercuts! We’ll be with you shortly!”

I wasn’t planning on sharing my haircut with a stranger, thank you.

Can we put an end to this type of phony greeting? I understand it’s polite to welcome each customer to your store. It’s courteous and lets them know you’re there if they need anything. But I can’t imagine a Nordstrom employee yelling at me from across the room.  Imagine entering a Ben Bridge Jewelers only to be greeted by a guy helping newlyweds select rings. I can wait till you’re finished. I really can. Please help the cute couple as I’m just here to replace my $15 fake alligator watch band.

If you’re a store owner, don’t demand that every customer must be greeted the second they enter the store. Instead of yelling from 30 yards out, what if the Old Navy employee had finished folding her stack of sweaters before walking over to greet me?

I’m sure the Party Cardis can wait.

“Will you make up a game for us?” asked Luca.

My creative instincts rose to the challenge, and we played a game of tag that consisted of Kai running after us with a half-eaten sucker. When the kids dad was too tired to play any longer, we gravitated to a large rock just off the path. A few of them remembered this rock because we’ve rested in this very spot in years past.

The kids had all sorts of questions about the rock. How are rocks made? How did this one grow to be so big? How did someone move it to this exact spot for kids to sit on?

As we chatted Luca caught me off-guard with this question: “What would you do if you were a millionaire?”

I paused and thought for a moment about the cities around the world I’d take the kids to see. Maybe hire a nanny or at least someone to fold the laundry. I’d buy Kim an iPad and one of those robots that vacuums the kitchen floor. No, I’d buy her five new bookshelves. She’s been begging me about those for years.

Those were my thoughts as we sat on a rock in the middle of a forest. The skies were overcast and the temperature ideal for this afternoon. We watched squirrels run up and down the tree trunks. The entire setting is dominated with lush green tones.

As we were about to leave, I watched an elderly man grasp the arm of what looked to be his granddaughter before slowing making their way up the stairs to the lookout platform.

When we made it back to the car, I looked at the kids in the rearview mirror. Kai was nodding off to sleep and Anna and Lincoln were back to playing Mario Kart.

“Do you know what I’d do if I were a millionaire?” I asked, knowing only Luca would be listening.

“What?” she asked.

“I’d be doing exactly what I’m doing now”.

Lost Woods (played by Luca)

Hyrule Castle (played by Kim)

The Market (played by Luca)

Each of these brings back good memories of making my way through the game. Although Ocarina came out over 13 years ago, few games have surpassed it in sheer enjoyment. I’m still amazed how much fun Nintendo was able to fit on a cartridge. Few games included such a memorable soundtrack.

My father would utter the phrase when he sensed I was pushing up against the rules, be they ones created for our baseball team or those enforced at home.

I knew what he meant, although I didn’t want to admit it at the time.

Go with the flow.

Don’t fight the inevitable.

The process is bigger than the individual.

Remember the scene in Office Space when Joanna is criticized for wearing the minimum fifteen items of flair while her annoying enthusiastic coworker, Brian, wore 37 pieces?  Brian knew how to play the game while Joanna didn’t feel comfortable doing so.

Yes, I got the message loud and clear. Sometimes it was easier to play the game than fight the system.  That’s how it worked. That’s what I was supposed to accept. I felt like 15 pieces of flair were enough and didn’t want to add another 22.

I can hear my father’s voice when I run into a process I don’t understand: just play the game.

Lately, I’ve found myself unwilling to play the game because it feels fake. What makes it difficult is when many people around you are professional players. They know the game inside and out and expect you to go along with them. But this never leads to happiness.

Like the time I went through the gauntlet of interviews at the University of Utah only to find out few of the companies were hiring. Somehow that process was supposed to be valuable to us down the road, but I wasn’t aware the joke was on me from the start.

At what point in life does one stop playing the game?

I am playing it less than I used to, and my soul feels better for it. As I get older, I find it’s often easier to let others play the game and coast in their wake doing my own thing. Let them work the front lines while I sit back and observe.

Game over.

“Probably” I answered.

The kids have been worried about our boxer who turned 10 years old a few months ago. She’s slowed over the past couple of years. Her back legs become stiff, and she hobbles around the house trying to keep up with four young, active children. She used to chase them around the yard. Now, she sits next to the window and watches.

Of course, she can’t help but greet the kids at the door when they arrive home from school. And she’s always the first to welcome me home from work each day.

The questions about Elka continued until Kim began playing the piano. Elka was curled up on one end of the couch while the rest of us tried to position ourselves on the remaining two cushions.

Only the small light at the piano provided any light to the room. The kids wiggled around for a moment before quieting down as Kim began.

After we bought our first home, Kim convinced me that we needed a piano. Although I didn’t play, I figured I’d enjoy listening to her and I was right. She’s taught herself many new songs, and each one she plays today brings back memories of the various stages of our life we started together twelve years ago.

As four kids, one adult and one dog made it onto the couch in various stages of comfort, Kim played a song from David Lanz called “Behind the Waterfall/Desert Rain”. The kids watched her fingers dance across the keys emitting a tune we’ve heard her play dozens of times, yet never tire of. I’ve told Kim it’s my favorite song she plays.

I’m done trying to figure out what will help the kids settle down for the evening. Reading a story together works occasionally until one of the kids belches or worse and the kids topple off the bed in laughter. So I’m surprised when they all remain on the couch until mom plays the last note. Could it be the music has a calming effect on them? Either way, these impromptu concerts result in some of the best times we spend together as a family. The piano, not the television, has become the hub of our family, and has been worth every penny we paid for it.

Eventually the song comes to an end as does the peacefulness. Before long, balls and socks are being tossed around the room.

And that’s when I noticed that not once did any child pester Elka. Not even Kai. They left her curled up on the couch, and allowed her to rest. Even when it meant less room for them. I know they love her as much as she loves them. She just doesn’t have the energy to express it like she did when she was younger.

As I ran my fingers through her dark brindle fir, Anna approached me. It was clear she’d been thinking about her earlier question when she said, “When Elka is gone, I want a dog just like her”.

“Maybe this time we’ll get a tan and white boxer”, I added.

Luca was listening from the other end of the couch, and when she heard me, she said, “No way, Dad. Let’s get one that looks just like Elka”.

I hope Kim plays many more impromptu piano concerts for us. And I hope Elka joins us on the couch to hear a few more.

As I entered college I felt like I could find success in anything I went after. I didn’t have to accept the same old boring career path. While friends from high school attended law, dental and medical school, I studied German. I enjoyed the smaller classes that came with choosing a language studies program compared to business or law. Part of the excitement was not knowing what I’d do after graduation. And by not knowing, it felt like I could do anything.

And, frankly, I liked being different. Sitting in an auditorium with 700 other clones taking Marketing 101 made me feel like I was back at the Mission Training Center expected to fit in, tow the line, and do what I was told. I enjoyed a few of the classes but despised the attitude of those students studying business.

I was caught between playing it safe and following my heart.

As much as I learned in four years of college, the most valuable skills I learned came at night in my apartment when I’d take computers apart, study the pieces, and put them back together. Luckily, I had my tech savvy uncle to lean on during those times I ended up with a handful of spare parts and a computer that refused to boot.

As I look back on my career, I see how often I’ve played it safe with my choices. One of the few times I took a chance and followed my heart was the time I left a stable corporate job to join a small Internet Service Provider in Seattle. The amount of knowledge I gained there easily surpassed all other jobs combined, and I’m convinced it’s because I forced myself to step outside my comfort zone.

Why do I continue to play it safe when I know it results in learning less?

It was easier to take chances when I was single and certainly before we had children. Back then, if I took a chance, and it didn’t work out, I’d find something else. But now I can’t afford to go without medical benefits for my family. With the economic downturn and high unemployment numbers, playing it safe sounds like the reasonable choice.

And yet, this is probably the best time to follow my heart because I have so much on the line. I’d have to make it work. I couldn’t allow myself to fail because failure would affect many people.

I’m not betting with house money anymore.

But a small part of me says, “Go for it”.

I mentioned I was tired, but would finish hitting the last few balls until they flew out of bounds. Luca wasn’t worn out and began to lobby for me to continuing playing.

This past weekend is one of the few throughout the year we spend on the Washington coast with my in-laws. We enjoyed our time at the beach, but because the weather was cooler than normal, we found a school where the kids could work off some energy on the playground.

Luca did her best to keep the ball in play which kept me on the court longer than I’d planned. When the last tennis ball headed towards the grass, I handed my racquet to Lincoln and started for the car.

“But I want you to watch me play”, Luca said before I could get too far.

She wants me to watch her play.

I stood away from the court for a moment and took in the scene. My other kids were going down the slide or climbing on the monkey bars. My youngest was probably chasing bees on the soccer field. My iPhone was in the car updating itself with email and blogs to read.

I paused to think about how often I show up, play with the kids before taking off as fast as I showed up. Mom sees them regularly in school while I appear for the two hour field trip before racing back to work. I sneak in the back just in time to catch the piano recital. I’m like Spiderman without the climbing or web making abilities. I show up, complete my assignment, and head off to more important endeavors.

Don’t blink or you might miss my appearance.

I took a seat close to the court instead of one back at the van. Whenever Luca hit a backhanded or returned a difficult shot, she turned to see if I’d witnessed it before flashing a smile.

It won’t be long before she’s whizzing serves past my outstretched arms. There’s no guarantee she’ll always want me around to watch her hit tennis balls. Or play the piano or perform in the talent show. I didn’t always want my parents around during my teen years. 

But this time I didn’t race off to more important endeavors.

They don’t exist.

RedBox is the exact opposite. Their selection is so small that nearly every title looks fascinating. I mean, how did I manage to skip over Flicka 2 and Leap Year when they were in theaters? Oh, and there’s Glory, in case I missed it back in ‘89.

The only downside to RedBox besides their limited selection is that fact I must drive to a kiosk location to pickup the movie and do the same to return it. That means When In Rome, worth a shot for a buck, becomes a $12 investment because the DVD got separated from the container, and it took a week before I discovered it in the kid’s toy closet.

I visited the Red Box website and plugged my zip code into their “Find A RedBox” engine, and it spit out 27 locations in my town alone. Yet I wondered how I could make RedBox even more convenient. A few months back, I tried to return a DVD to a kiosk that was out of order. I called customer service to inquire when it would be operational before hunting down one of the other 26 locations. Within minutes, the RedBox came alive, and gulped down the DVD I fed it by hand, red arrow pointing the right direction and all.

Because customer service was so helpful, I decided to try my luck and see if I could convince them to setup a RedBox at my house.

Unlike Amazon, RedBox makes it easy to locate their phone number from their website. I dialed and waited a few minutes on hold. I listened to a recording that recited a few RedBox facts such as “over 20,000” locations and the ability to return DVDs to any RedBox location. Finally, I was connected with a customer service rep whom I’ll call  “Lenny”.

Lenny: Thank you for calling RedBox. How can I assist you?

Me: I’m calling to inquire about having a RedBox setup at my home.

Lenny: Did you say at your home? Do you mean your business?

Me: I was hoping to get one placed just outside my home.

Lenny: We typically place kiosks in public, high traffic areas. Most are located inside or just outside of a business. Do you have a business?

Me: I don’t have a business per se, but, given the number of DVDs my family rents, I’m sure you won’t notice a decrease in usage. Besides, if rentals were down one month, I’d be willing to let my neighbors join in the fun.

Lenny: Like I said, we place them in public areas. I can’t imagine you’d want strangers trespassing on your property during all hours of the day and night.

Me: I have a stretch to the side of my home that was built for RV parking. But since I don’t have an RV it would make an ideal place for a RedBox. Plus, have you ever tried to return a DVD only to find that guy who thinks Avatar is available on release day? He’ll spend 20 minutes scrolling through every screen before leaving with Ponyo. Wait times at the kiosk would be zero if I had my own.

Lenny: I don’t know…

Me: To make it easier on you, RedBox could fill the kiosk with only kids movies and shows that don’t star Jennifer Aniston or Katherine Heigl. That would reduce the number drastically.

Lenny: What? Maybe I could take your name and number and forward your request to the department that handles business relations.

At that point, I gave Lenny my name and number. He assured me that I’ll hear from someone shortly.

The chances of getting my own kiosk are slim to none, but I’ll manage having to search out one of those other kiosks.

I’m always delighted to speak with people who are so friendly and clearly enjoy their job.  I’d guess most people who call in do so to complain about something. Kudos to Lenny and RedBox for hiring such friendly employees. I’m an even bigger RedBox fan today than I was before.

We’d just returned from the movie theater where we took in Batman. It was the summer of 1989 only  a few months before thousands of East Germans would climb a wall and into the history books.

I sat in the passenger seat of my friend’s Chrysler Laser while Bono belted out a tune I’d never heard before. I don’t know how it escaped me since “The Joshua Tree” had been released two years previously.

I like to sing although I’ve never felt comfortable doing so. But if I had three wishes, one of them would be to sing like this.

I don’t believe in the perfect song. “Mother” from Pink Floyd is close. But “Running To Stand Still” may be the closest to perfection.

It’s not that I don’t like the people in large group. Many can be close friends or relatives.  But I don’t care for the social dynamics and structure that large groups dictate. Large groups are made up of smaller groups, and I nearly always find myself on the outside looking in at these smaller groups of people ripping Obama or health care reform or Facebook or whatever. Since I find it difficult to keep my mouth shut, it’s best I avoid them and head to an area with better 3G service.

I’m not referring to large conferences with hundreds or thousands of people. It’s easy to remain anonymous in that size group. Those don’t bother me.

I’m talking about the company Christmas party, family reunion or church banquet. I know it sounds odd because those occasions are meant to bring people together. But I can’t stand them.

I find these situations incredibly awkward. I’d avoid them altogether, but that’s impossible with young children. I don’t want to deprive them of the opportunity to meet family or make new friends just because I’d rather be organizing my sock drawer.

Kim and I seldom argue. But when we do it’s usually been over my desire to skip a family or church gathering.  If I’m unable to make up an excuse fast enough, I’ll attend and pull out my iPhone or wander the building looking for a janitor listening to sports on his radio.

My mother-in-law and my father love getting large groups of people together. Nothing makes them happier than to gather the family together for an activity that ends with a group photo. I have to remind myself that these gatherings make them happy, and my kids enjoy attending them.

A couple years ago, my father took over 30 people in our family to Disneyland. It was our kids first time to the park, and they had a blast. But we spent very little time with other members of my family. It was if we’d gone on our own which was fine with me, but I feel my kids missed a rare opportunity to spend time with their cousins. Living in Seattle while everyone else lives in Utah creates an unintended barrier between us.

As awkward as I feel in large groups, I’m good one on one. I love nothing more than getting together with a friend and talking for two hours over dinner. I’m looking forward to doing just that tonight with a close friend I haven’t seen in a few months.

Last week, my brother-in-law from St. George and I got talking after the fireworks on the 4th and didn’t stop until 5 am. It was a lot of fun to get to know him better. We have more in common that I imagined.  Had he not broken off from the group and found me downstairs with my laptop, I would have missed out.

So if you run into me at the next Christmas party, family reunion or church activity, say hello. Just don’t bring your entourage. 

We kept the company lean and only hired when the client work exceeded our staff. We’d found our niche, and everyone we added to payroll had to contribute to our mission of creating killer demos. We charged a premium for our services, and our clients were willing to pay for quality work and attention to detail.

The company was humming along nicely. 

And then one day, our CEO decided that we needed to go into the software business. But providing a service is very different than building a complex piece of software. Different skill sets are required. We’d never created software before but how hard could it be? To many, it seemed like a natural extension of our current business. Few CEOs understand what it takes to create even the simplest piece of software. It’s a lot more difficult than tossing money and a spec at a developer. It all seems like magic to them.

But it wasn’t.

Payroll swelled as programmers, testers, and program managers were hired. A few people were hired because they were considered “super stars”. One “super star” earning six figures spent his time creating an online accounting system. We didn’t want to lose out on hiring this guy, but we hadn’t given much thought to what he’d be doing day to day. I worked with him for a year and, to this day, have no idea what he was hired to do.

Our culture slowly changed. No longer were we a close-knit group who knew what each other worked on. The new software project quickly became the cute new girl in school that everyone wants to date. Employees working on our stable services business were pulled over to work on new software. The focus of our company changed from a solid if somewhat less flashy business to one with untold potential. Never mind that we’d yet to sell a single software license. But the potential for sales was staggering. At least, what’s what we were told.

I began to wonder out loud if any company, let alone one with 30 employees, can run a successful service business and product business.

We knew we were great at creating demos, but got distracted by the margins and sexiness of creating software. Our CEO got bored of selling merely a service and decided to jump into the software business with little experience or plan.

In less than two year our small company was a shell of itself. The software project ultimately crippled the services business. Potential failed to pay the bills.

How does your company go about growing the business? Do they stick to what they do well and try to expand on that? Or do they blindly jump into new markets?

The lesson I learned was to pick something I’m good at and go after that with as much passion and grit I can muster. It’s easy to get distracted by what competitors are doing. It’s easy to be blinded by the shiny new technology. But doing so will ultimately pull you away from what you do well.

Which begs the question: What do you do well?

I pulled the Costco sized basket of strawberries from the fridge, and began to cut them into slices. I was rinsing and slicing as fast as I could go, but it didn’t feel like I was making much progress. That’s when I noticed Kai’s tiny hand grasping two strawberry slices from the bowl. Before I could say a word, he was making a beeline for the living room while shoving them into his mouth.

With Kai at bay, I was able to fill a bowl full of strawberries while Kim rinsed a bowl of blueberries.  I put four small bowls on the table and filled each with whipped cream before calling the kids to the table.

As much as the kids love ice cream, they will do about anything for a snack of fresh fruit and whipped cream.

Most nights I’d be anxious wondering if their rooms were clean or if their dirty clothes had been tossed down the laundry chute. Last night I spent ten minutes explaining why the Slip’n Slide and inflatable pool couldn’t remain on the grass overnight. Glazed eyes and yawns started 30 seconds into that lecture.

And if every toy was in its place and every tooth had been brushed, I’d wonder why the kids were giving each other wedgies so close to midnight. Although, I must admit, if you’re going to be dishing out wedgies, midnight isn’t a bad time to be doing so.

Before I unleashed them on the fruit, I explained the only two rules:

1. Only one piece of fruit at a time
2. No intentionally painting face with whipped cream

They agreed and were soon grabbing strawberries and blueberries as fast as they could shove them in their mouths.  Luca told me this was “way better than a milkshake”. Anna said we should do this every night. Lincoln licked whipped cream off his arm.

Too many times I’m with my kids but my mind is elsewhere. How many times has one of your children asked you a question and your only reply is, “What did you say?” I’m afraid this happens to me much too often.

But tonight I’m going to celebrate a small victory over distractions. Sure, it didn’t happen until way past everyone’s bedtime, but I don’t care. It happened. That’s what matters. Because that’s what my kids will remember.

When I was young, my mom would sprinkle powered sugar over a bowl of orange slices. As much as I enjoyed the treat, I loved that my mom sat across from me and at table and made me feel important.  As was the case tonight, those moments oftentimes took place past my bedtime while my father watched Johnny Carson.

When the fruit was gone, the kids ran off to bed as quickly as they had arrived. I was left to ponder why I don’t do this more often while I stood at the sink rinsing dishes.

Oh, I’m sure they will be tired tomorrow morning. But I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Enough of the kids arguing over whose turn it was to play on the computer. Enough of trying to keep the neighbor kids out of our yard and my kids out of theirs. Enough of this or that that I had to remove myself from the mayhem.

But mom wasn’t home, and the care of our four children and dog were in my increasingly frustrated hands.

Sometimes the kids wear me down to the point that I’ll agree to any request no matter how outlandish. Fruit Loops and Red Vines for dinner? Sure. Pop Tarts and Teddy Grahams? Whatever it takes.

That was my mindset last night. To make matters worse, the house was hot and muggy. Temperatures in the Seattle area zoomed into the 90’s which doesn’t sound like much but isn’t comfortable without central air.

I sent the kids upstairs to get ready for bed. The clock over the mantel told me I was two hour late getting them down for the night. I turned off the lights and sat down on the couch.

I heard the kids brushing teeth and changing into the nightshirts that arrived that day from their grandfather. Cabinets were shut and the water faucet was turned on and off enough times that I began to wonder how many children were in there.

I even heard someone flush the toilet.

Some negotiating took place to get Kai headed in the right direction, but eventually the kids made it to their rooms without a major uprising.

I sat in the dark wondering when mom would be home. I wanted to lay down but we own the world’s most uncomfortable couch, and my butt was almost numb from the metal support beam. Instead I pulled out my iPhone and began to play a mindless game of Doodle Jump.

I was nearly asleep when I felt someone scoot next to me. It was Luca. I waited for her to ask me to get her a drink, or turn the hallway light on or adjust the fan. But she didn’t. Any minute now she’s going to ask to play a game on my phone. But she said nothing.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“I just want to sit next to you”, she replied.

So I sat there next to my daughter on the most uncomfortable couch listening to the ceiling fan. Suddenly it didn’t matter that the house was hot or that it wouldn’t be entirely clean before mom arrived home.

If Luca sensed my earlier frustration, she didn’t mention it. But she knew I could use the company.

I learn a lot from my kids.

And often it comes at the most unexpected times.

But after one late night study session at the University of Utah, I headed down interstate 15 in my Acura Integra. It was the first car I owned that came with a CD player. I decided to give the Pretender another shot.

I didn’t think much of it until I began pulling up the street to my apartment, and I heard this amazing piano accompany these lyrics:

Say a prayer for the pretender?

Are you there for the pretender?

Say a prayer for the pretender.

Oh, are you there for the pretender?

Are you prepared the pretender?

That voice and the lyrics and that piano. I couldn’t stop listening so I drove past my apartment and continued down Orchard Drive until I was back on the interstate. It didn’t matter where. All that mattered was that I had to hear this song over and over, and the only CD player I owned was attached to this car.

I’ve heard Jackson Browne describe what influenced him to write the Pretender. But I interpreted differently. I didn’t have enough experience behind me at the time to feel like I’d abandoned my dreams for a life of commercialism.

My interpretation was simple: I was a pretender.

I was going through the motions at school, in my marriage, in my church calling and most of my friendships. Giving just enough to each to keep them alive but not enough to keep them off life support. I was a pretender.

I hid behind the facade of busy. It wasn’t difficult to look like I had my act together. I had little free time so I must be accomplishing something, right? Each day was filled with classes, studying, work and more studying. But I was a pretender.

Is there an age where one wakes up feeling like an adult? I assumed that would happen when I graduated from college? Or maybe when I got married or the first job that came with an office and business cards? Certainly it would happen once I became a father?

With age comes experience. Trials provide opportunities to mature. I’m not as stupid and naive as I was the night drove through Salt Lake listening to Jackson Browne.

Nobody has pulled back the curtain to expose how little I know and how often I act like I know what I’m doing when, in reality, I have no idea.

I’ve even come to terms with the fact that there are times where all I can do is pretend to know what I’m doing. 

For example, when Kim asks me select church outfits for our daughters. Or when Anna asked me why some guys have boobs.

Say a prayer for the pretender.