Parenting Skills

I realize that many of you probably thought I was dead, and that this blog was extinct...but not so. Yeah, nearly two years have passed. (1 year, 11 months, 5 days (or 704 days), to be exact.)

A lot has happened since I last posted, and much that has kept me from posting. I will simply say this: Life happens.

Today, standing at the counter at the local bookseller, though, ignited me sufficiently to log right in and speak my mind.

I was reading before the age of two, thanks in part to the efforts of my school-teacher mother and father; due also to the prompting, support, and encouragement of my grandparents. And by reading, I mean "reading"--not just STOP signs, but the comics and articles in the newspaper aloud to my grandfather. I love to read. I take a book wherever I go. Reading, to me, is truly an essential. I have also been blessed that all my Horde love to read and read voraciously. I have not had to do much in the way of pushing them to read; they have done it largely on their own.

In addition to my parents, I have grandparents that were teachers, cousins that are teachers, aunts that are teachers. A long line of book lovers and intense readers.

This is my background. This is from whence I come. I am grateful for all of these people in my life and for what they have given me and shared with me.

As I walked into the store, I was practically knocked over by a 11- or 12-year-old trying to get into the store. Normally this would set me off in a "get off my lawn you whippersnapper"-type of internal temper tantrum. Seeing a young man this anxious to get into a bookstore, however, quells that anger.

I did my quick shopping and, as I said, was standing at the counter chatting with the clerk as she rang up my purchases (three of Terry Pratchett's books I'd been meaning to pick up for a long time and today seemed the time, may he R.I.P. But that's another discussion.).

And then I heard this:  A voice dripping with sarcasm and scorn. A mother, her face right in her son's face. Her son, the aforementioned young man, holding a book and looking like he had just had his earth shattered, his foundation broken, and the love of his life murdered in front of his eyes.

 Yeah, because you just loooooooove to read soooooooooooo much, don't you, now?!? 

It was loud enough that most of the front of the store turned to look at the pair. I watched as the boy turned, dejected, and slunk with his tail between his legs to set the book down and walk back to his mother's side. While she continued to peruse the glamor magazines, that is. (And believe me, no amount of printed glamor hints would have helped this woman. Neither externally nor, it seems, internally.)

I can understand not being able to afford buying a book, or a magazine, or some such. I can understand telling your child you cannot afford it and promising to get it from the library.

But mocking and deriding your child's desire to read and actually telling your child how much he should hate books?!?

Parenting skills? Hardly. I would call it close to parental tyranny.


I have heard it said before that, perhaps, people should be required to take classes and obtain a license before rearing children. I have typically laughed that off, or at least, dismissed it largely as histrionics.

Not after today. Certainly not after today.

Constructive Thoughts: What Matters Most

This morning my Facebook page blew up. I am sure your page did as well.

The vitriol I have seen since the concession and victory speeches last night has been staggering.

Actually, no. Saddening is a much better description.

I could weep and wail and gnash teeth about things that happened in various races in various places. I would suspect that any 50% of the people in the country could do the same thing. Some of what happened actually makes me a bit less proud to be an American. Honestly.

But what makes me really regret being an American is the vitriol. Being lumped in with that crowd is embarrassing. Truly. As I have pondered my situation and the situation of my fellow countrymen and women, I was prompted to re-read something. When I did, I felt both hope and humility enter my heart and mind.

I want to share with you the following words, said stronger and more eloquently than I could say them.

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Stresses in our lives come regardless of our circumstances. We must deal with them the best we can. But we should not let them get in the way of what is most important—and what is most important almost always involves the people around us. . . .

Let us relish life as we live it, find joy in the journey, and share our love with friends and family. One day each of us will run out of tomorrows. . . . Our realization of what is most important in life goes hand in hand with gratitude for our blessings. . . .

“For what doth it profit a man if a gift is bestowed upon him, and he receive not the gift? Behold, he rejoices not in that which is given unto him, neither rejoices in him who is the giver of the gift.” (Doctrine and Covenants 88:33)

 . . .

Despite the changes which come into our lives and with gratitude in our hearts, may we fill our days—as much as we can—with those things which matter most. May we cherish those we hold dear and express our love to them in word and in deed.

In closing, I pray that all of us will reflect gratitude for our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. His glorious gospel provides answers to life’s greatest questions: Where did we come from? Why are we here? Where does my spirit go when I die?

He taught us how to pray. He taught us how to serve. He taught us how to live. His life is a legacy of love. The sick He healed; the downtrodden He lifted; the sinner He saved.

The time came when He stood alone. Some Apostles doubted; one betrayed Him. The Roman soldiers pierced His side. The angry mob took His life. There yet rings from Golgotha’s hill His compassionate words, “Father, forgive them; for they know not what they do.” (Luke 23:34.) . . . Let us follow Him. Let us emulate His example. Let us obey His word. By so doing, we give to Him the divine gift of gratitude.

Brothers and sisters, my sincere prayer is that we may adapt to the changes in our lives, that we may realize what is most important, that we may express our gratitude always and thus find joy in the journey. In the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

~Thomas S. Monson, Finding Joy In The Journey, Ensign, Nov. 2008. (Emphasis added.)

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That would be my prayer as well, for all of my friends and readers... not just today, but every day, let us pause and consider what matters most in each of our lives and let us express gratitude to He who has given us what we have.

I wish to express my humble gratitude to my Father in Heaven for the many blessings that I have and continue to receive from His hands. I also wish to say "thank you" to my friends, family, and readers for all you have brought and continue to bring to my life.

God bless you all, and God bless the United States of America.

Constructive Thoughts: A Realization

Long-time readers will know that I have a habit of being negative. I am negative about my office, my job, my career, the people that fill the town around me, politics, and so forth.

Today I came to a realization. I had an epiphany.

I am fine.

Sure, my health is a mess and the pain from the past week has resulted in some pretty weird and frightening dreams/hallucinations/phantasmagories. Nothing much has changed in my employment or career and it does not appear likely that anything will.

But still, I am fine.

In fact, I'm better than fine.

Wealth would be great. Fame? Meh, I find that I do not desire it much any more. There is a whole pile of worldly stuff that I once thought (and probably will again) would make my life "better." Perfect health would be a dream beyond a dream.

But you know what?

I already have everything I need or want.

I live in an average-sized house in a clean neighborhood. My yard may be somewhat unkempt and the rabbit cages may need a bit of cleaning. My neighbor's grass may be greener and their rose-bushes more prize-winning. But you know what?

In that house lives a loving wife and beautiful children who clamber over one another to hug and greet me when I stagger in from a long day.

And despite the Horde's clamor -- or maybe, in part, because of it -- my home is a peaceful, quiet refuge from the world.

That house has heat in the winter and cool air in the summer. There is a sound roof, which keeps off the rain and snow. There is sufficient to eat and all within are clothed.

I may not have everything the world says I need or want. I will likely never attain that status.

In truth, however.... I find that I have it all.

And for it all, I am eternally grateful.

Simply Harry Potter

OK. I know that in my last post I may have indirectly heaped trash on the name of J.K. Rowling.

I swear I heard gasping, because there are so many for whom reading Rowling is nigh-unto worship.

That's why I have been reluctant to admit to you all that in the past nine days I re-read all seven Harry Potter novels. Yep. The entire series. Started on June 7 and ended last night.

It was an enjoyable little jaunt.

I am not going to take back my scorn, however.

And I am going to offend some people.

Yeah, I hear you saying that at least she's published. That people know who she is and who am I to criticize her. I understand all that.

I will admit the books are a somewhat pleasant diversion. But they are just that. There is no deeper meaning to them, although I am sure that the typical liberal-arts loving English professor could deconstruct them and find hidden meaning galore, if not The True Meaning Of Life. (Yes, capitalized even.) I tried last night as I was finishing up The Deathly Hallows. Surely there's a message there about learning the truth about your heroes, some warning to children not to look up to or trust adults, because there's always some hidden evil in their background. That was as close as I got, and if I am right -- if that was intended -- well then, J.K. Rowling should be ashamed of herself.

But see, I am of the opinion -- the STRONG opinion that these books are not children's books. I do not care what kind of marketing strategy or philosophy involved, these are not children's books. In fact, I am ready to argue that allowing a child to read some of these books may be akin to child abuse, or at least indifference to the child's mental/emotional welfare and well-being.

We will not discuss the movies, because I gave up caring after the second one.

But I remember being in a grocery store years ago and watching in disgusted amazement as a three-year-old child pointed at a Harry Potter balloon and called out "Harry Potter! Harry Potter!"

A three-year-old child has NO business knowing who Harry Potter is.

And I am not sure that anyone under the age of mid-teens should know either. My teenager has not read them yet, and has not suffered any ill effects. She may in fact be able to live without reading them; the jury is still out on that one, though. Some sudden attack of fatal lackofpotteritis may yet prove to be her undoing.

Do not get me wrong: I am not going to make the argument of witchcraft and sorcery being peddled to our young. Others have made this argument, that is their prerogative. My thinking? They are fantasy novels. Not reality. Heck, outside of my spiritual endeavors, I spend most of my life in a fantasy world. [Aside: What? You think lawyers are sane individuals fully functioning in reality? I beg to differ.] I cannot take too much umbrage with this point. After all, Gandalf did magic. So did Willy Wonka.

No, I have different issues with Ms. Rowling's works. First and foremost, there is very little pure good represented in the books. Pure evil? Sure, it is everywhere; it saturates her little universe and it pours off the page. But pure good? I challenge you to point to ten major characters that are examples of pure, unadulterated, unquestioned goodness in the novels. No fair using animals: Hedwig and the owls do not count. Neither does Fawkes. I'll start the list, though these should probably be qualified as supporting cast:
1. Hagrid. Hagrid is an innocent and I am hardpressed to remember any specifically bad intentional act. The other characters treat Hagrid with pity, in part because he just doesn't seem as smart as they are.
2. Arthur and Molly Weasley. Again, innocents without any memorable bad intentional act. Again, well-meaning, but portrayed as slightly pitiable or less-intelligent. In fact, I could probably lump Bill and perhaps Charlie Weasley in here as well, but they are even more minor characters than their parents and, as such, perhaps do not warrant inclusion in the discussion at all.
3. Luna Lovejoy. Possibly. Her name just came to me; I will have to reserve judgment unless and until I can remember any specifics. But here again, an innocent that everyone considers to be slightly off-kilter or insane (or stupid).
4. Professor Minerva McGonagall. Again, she just came to me. I will have to think on her. She may be an exception to this list, as she is strong and intelligent.
5. Neville Longbottom. Another innocent. Another slightly off-kilter, slightly less-intelligent member of the cast.

See a trend? The only arguably purely good characters in the books are those that are innocent, naive, and possibly not intelligent. That's a nice portrayal; nice message to send to kids. "Hey, son! Why can't you act more like Neville Longbottom, eh?"

No, the main protaganists -- and by this I mean Harry, Ron, Hermione, and Dumbledore -- none of these are as unequivocally good as Voldemort is unequivocally evil. The Dark Lord has no direct counterpart. Dumbledore has a dark side and has done bad things. Harry and Ron waffle back and forth; they are not examples of pure good. Harry's soul is certainly not as lily-white as Voldemort's soul is midnight-black.

After the whole "peddling-these-books-to-kids" issue, this is my main beef with the books. There is pure good in this world. There is also pure evil. If you are going to acquaint readers with evil, especially if you are going to market to children and acquaint impressionable children with the concept of pure evil, then you better darn well be willing and prepared to acquaint them with the concept of pure good.

Plus, I simply cannot accept these as "great" literature. They are pleasant distractions. They cannot -- no matter how loud the groundlings scream -- compare to Shakespeare. Dickens. Twain. Rand. Do not try and argue; one hundred years from now, two hundred? Will Harry Potter be remembered? Will he be taught in AP English classes? Who's to say? Perhaps our standards are indeed that low. They're already suggested reading in elementary school. [Aside: We actually considered a private school for our oldest when she was ready to start school. The fact that the classrooms displayed posters of Harry Potter and Star Wars actually helped convince us to homeschool. Yes, even with a Star Wars-nerd father. There has to be a line in Education. That is a rant for another day, though.] I hope our standards -- not just as Americans, but as a civilization as a whole -- are not this low; I truly hope not. If she is our day's Shakespeare, we may as well simply throw in the towel.

I hear you saying that Shakespeare wrote to entertain, to satisfy the groundlings. Yes, but he did so with style, skill, and art. While Rowling uses magic as a subject, there is little or no magic in her words. Want to argue? Give me a passage with as much feeling and meaning as these:

What a piece of work is a man! How noble in reason! how infinite in faculty! in form, in moving, how express and admirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! the beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! And yet, to me, what is this quintessence of dust?

The Bard distills the essence of what makes up a man: the inherent goodness. And he does so with skill, art, and brevity. In the approximately 3,000 pages of the series, she cannot make Harry -- or, truly, any character -- fit this profile, let alone describe anything with this manner of magnificent prose.

I have actually read a review saying, "This [the fact that the characters, good and evil, are developed in such a way that they are, well, not simply good or evil] is perhaps Rowling's greatest achievement in the book. While the series can be described as an epic tale between good and evil, the individuals involved are not so easily defined." This is said as PRAISE of the books. [Aside: what adds a twist to this review was that it came from socialistworker.org. And yes, it was a random search; I just happened across it. In fact, now that I think about it, there's a whole host of blog entries on the fact that self-proclaimed socialists thrill over the blurring of the lines between good and evil. But I will leave that for another day. I do not want to discuss politics right now.] Sure... it may be an epic tale between good and evil, but it is one without a heck of a lot of real good shining out.

In these dark times, do we not deserve to treat ourselves to a little real good now and then?

And do not our children also deserve it? In fact, is it possible that they deserve it even more?

I know, it's a work of fiction. Why am I getting so riled up?

In part because it is a work of fiction. It is not literature.

Rowling's books surely cannot be part of the works of the Ages. If they are, well, I guess we deserve what we get.

Heroes

I met a real hero today.

That's a word that has lost its meaning. It is so over-used these days; everyone from sports stars to pop stars are called "heroes."

Hero: n. [L. heros; Gr. a demigod.]

1. A man of distinguished valor, intrepidity or enterprise in danger; as a hero in arms.

2. A great, illustrious or extraordinary person; as a hero in learning.
~1828 Webster

I am sorry, sports fans, but Michael Jordan and Brett Favre? Not heroes. I do not care what roles they play, what songs they sing, or how many times they have checked themselves into rehab, I cannot think of many -- if any -- pop culture "icons" (for lack of a better word) that deserve the moniker of "hero." Certainly none that I would want the Horde to emulate. (Aside: I mean, no matter how heroic their characters, do you want a son to grow up to be like Christian Bale or Robert Downey, Jr.? Really? Are Miley Cyrus and Lindsay Lohan the daughters you want to have?)

This man, however, was in his mid-fifties, I would say. He was career Army: twenty years of hard work. We are not talking a desk pilot, here. This man served twenty long years, through some of the worst days in our modern history--1961-1981: a lot of crap went down in those two decades.

This man, in his words, had a lot wrong with him. "I've spent most of the last several months in bed; I'm in bad shape," he told me. His wife sat there with tears in his eyes as he talked how much time he spent at the VA Hospital, and how much he owed to her--his second wife. "She's saved my life," he admitted. He went on to explain that he was fully combat disabled.

This means he was not disabled by falling off a ladder in a supply warehouse somewhere stateside. As he told me, "I'm disabled because of combat."

Needless to say, I thanked him profusely for his service. He accepted it gratefully; I told him that I hoped he heard it often. He confessed that he didn't hear it much, but a lot more than he used to hear it.

I almost wept, hearing that. His humility was evident. The kind of humility that his experiences would give a person. A truly scriptural humility. The kind I would expect Captain Moroni to have had. But still, I almost wept -- with sadness, as much as gratitude and amazement.

You have got to be kidding me. Here we have someone who has almost given the last full measure, someone who has protected our Liberty and way of life, and he receives little gratitude? I would like to believe that it is because he does not walk around in his uniform. I rationalized that people just do not know he is a veteran, let alone a combat-injured veteran. I also, sadly, realized that it was more likely the result of political correctness: it just is not fashionable to respect the warrior.

Then, he said something that pushed him up another notch or two in my book: "I don't want a free ride. I'm paying all my creditors back."

He would not even entertain the thought of a Chapter 7 Bankruptcy. He was here to see if a Chapter 13 would work for him, and if he could pay his creditors back at 100%.

Do you know how often I hear that?

Usually it is "How can we screw over these jerks that have taken so much of my money?" or words to that effect. Now, sometimes this attitude is almost warranted, because there are a lot of predators out there, preying on the stupid and uninformed in our society. But it is not always the case; probably not even the majority of the time.

But he was adamant. "I'm paying back everything I owe. I just need a little breathing room; I need the bleeding to stop just a little so that I can get on my feet and start paying them all back, everything to everyone I owe."

Wow. I cannot express what a feeling I had. He had nearly given his all to his country and here he was, not asking for a handout, not asking for "his due," not even really asking for much help. All he wanted was some breathing room so that he could pay everyone back at 100%.

I do not often see heroes. Combat veterans do not normally scream out their records for all to hear and praise, so I do not often get to thank them for their service and sacrifices.

Add on to that someone who does not want to pursue what others would think they were owed, who do not want to take advantage of the system? Strange and uncommon in itself.

Together? A rarity. I feel as if a dragon has just crossed the road in front of me, majestic, stately, and truly unexpected.

Not only do I thank you, sir, I salute you.

These are the heroes I, as a father, want for the Horde's role models.

Not Michael Jordan. Not Miley Cyrus.

But HEROES

NaNoWriMo 2008 - Update 3

More life. More intervention.

I'm now about a week behind pace; my LW is keeping pace just ahead of me. I think she thinks it is funny somehow. But she is behind as well.

You see, the Horde want to write as well. The three oldest are signed up with NaNoWriMo as well. But they have conspired to keep us behind; I am fully convinced of it.

You see, two of them have now lost their NaNoWriMo notebooks. Last week, that is. They have spent five full days moping about after I get home from work "looking" for their notebooks.

My LW and I have gone blue in the face trying to convince them to just start writing in a different notebook until we find their original notebook, then we can add them together on the computer.

They won't buy it.

And so they mope, and complain, and distract their parents from their writing.

[sigh]

Twelve short days left. Twelve.

I am not going to be eating much turkey this year, I can already tell.

Thanksgiving just won't find me overly sociable.

...and I am unplugging the television tonight.

Daddy Magic

My LW accuses me of having what she calls "Daddy Magic." (and yes, you CAN hear the initial capitals when she says it.)

Ever since our eldest was born, I have been able to soothe each of the Horde to sleep when all else fails. All it takes is a little time held in Daddy's arms and *ZONK*--out they go. It doesn't seem to matter what flavor of chaos is raging around us or how worked up the Hordeling is...Just a little taste of Daddy Magic and it's off to sleepy land.

Last night I attained an entirely new level of Paternal Wizardry.

Please, do not get me wrong. I do not want my blog to degenerate into a "what cute things my Hordelings did today"-type blog. THIS one was so funny, however, it has to be shared.

My LW had been struggling all night with our youngest Hordeling, trying to get her to sleep. We're talking one o'clock in the morning by this time. Every time my LW tries to take the little one to bed, the Hordeling's eyes pop open and she wants to get up and play.

We had reached the point in the process (this Hordeling does not go to sleep easily or early) when I reached my fatigue point, so I stood to leave the living room. Yes, that simple motion caused the Hordeling's eyes to pop open. My LW looked up at me with despair in her eyes, but said, "Go ahead and go to bed. You need to go to work tomorrow." I leaned over to give her a kiss and the Hordeling grinned up at me from her mother's arms.

So I bent over and kissed her gently on the forehead once.

When I stood up, she had closed her eyes and her breathing slowed...but as I moved, she stirred and woke.

Well, my LW thought it was funny enough that I leaned over and kissed the Hordeling again. Once. Twice. And a Third time, just for good measure. In a straight line across her forehead.

She was asleep.

Just like that.

She slept all through the night, too--something that is extraordinarily unusual for her.

Heh. Sometimes my powers amaze even me. It is a good thing I have decided to use my powers (should that be Powers?) for Good and not for Evil!

(Aside: I was tempted to title this post "Magic Lips" but upon second thought it scared me to consider the kinds of searches on which this title would get hits. Something tells me it would not be pretty.)

Constructive Thoughts: Fatherhood, Pt. 2

I think I am a hero to my boys today.

I cannot quite get them to articulate it, but I'm getting the feeling of increased adoration.

You see, I took them camping this weekend. Just the Boys. None of those icky girl-folk around. Just Men, both aging and pre-pubescent.

I am still suffering for it, but it was definitely worth it to see the sparkle in their eyes.

I was doing some more thinking last week about my father. There will be some regrets when he passes, unfortunately. Hopefully not as many as there could have been, because I am trying to rectify some of the lost time. There are some things, however, that time has effectively stolen from me.

I will look back and see times when I was too "busy" or too "proud" (or too "bored") to do things with my father. I will also look back and see a few times when he was too "busy" to do something. Not many, but a few.

Camping is one of those things.

I never got to do a lot of real tent-camping with my father. Most of what I learned about tent-camping was as a Boy Scout. The sad thing is that my father has a lot he could have shared with me. He underwent rigorous survival training when he was in the Service. He grew up around some of the best Scouts I've ever known in my Grandfather and uncles.

I have never really benefitted from any of that knowledge.

You'll remember as I wrote last week that the one time he went to Scout Camp with me I was embarrassed by how he lectured us all on the finer points of something-or-other. Yeah, as I said, not one of my prouder moments.

Anyway, as I was sitting and thinking all these wonderfully depressing thoughts last week, I remembered a Church magazine article I read just before I graduated from high school. It may have been the Ensign or the New Era, I cannot remember exactly. I wish I could remember the author. What I remember is the image: the author said something to the effect of "picture a man and his sons as they walk to their tents, sharing feelings and memories." I remember the gist of it, because I remember being a senior in high school and thinking: That's something I've never experienced with Father.

Even "Fathers and Sons" outings were missed, as they were always held "too far away." I've never been to one. Not one.

Don't get me wrong: I clearly own a good portion of the blame, maybe even most of the blame. When I was younger, I was an ungrateful snot at times. I lacked the vision I have now and didn't realize what I would miss when he was gone. I am not proud of any of it and I will reap the whirlwind some day.

All that being said, I decided last week that I was going to surprise my boys. I used that surprise as leverage to buy their good attitudes and behavior for their poor mother all week long. When Friday's lunchtime rolled around, there was some doubt as to whether my oldest son would be joining us. Let's just say he wasn't honoring his mother or siblings to the level that I would expect him to do.

I overruled his mother, however, and raced home from the office to throw the bare necessities into the van. The small tent went in. Duffel bags for the boys. A few books for bedtime reading for Dad. The Coleman lantern and a couple flashlights. The food I took was already prepared and wouldn't take much time to get ready to eat.

That was it.

My LW and the rest of the Horde were jealous, but it was Just The Boys. I loaded them up and we headed to a nearby park that allows camping along some backwoods jogging trails.

And my boys got to experience what I never did. Walking at sunset from the restrooms the quarter-mile or so back to our tents, all of us with our arms around each other. We talked about the sunset, the burgeoning dark and slowly-appearing stars. As we sat in the small tent on the slowly leaking queen-size mattress we spoke of the day's experiences and ended with a prayer to our Heavenly Father.

Of course, Dad couldn't sleep: I tried to do some writing, but from the lantern-light my youngest inferred that it was now playtime. Reading was out for the same reason. So there I lay, playing a stupid game on my cell-phone in the dark, listening to my boys snoring. Laying in an over-crowded tent on an unseasonably warm summer night with my boys' random limbs draped over my legs, back, and head. There was no breeze to relieve and all the day's heat was trapped in the tent. I was miserable.

But I was happy.

And so were they.

In the August 2008 Ensign President Thomas S. Monson prays, "May we live so that when that final summons is heard, we may have no serious regrets, no unfinished business...." As I read the Ensign on Sunday that line jumped out at me. Good, timely counsel from the Prophet.

Ours wasn't a long camping trip. We weren't even that far from home. We did some walking, but otherwise just killed some time sitting and talking. It wasn't anything fancy.

I am afraid that I will have some regrets. But after this weekend, I am hoping there will be fewer regrets than there could have been.

It wasn't a long camping trip. But it was a good one, a special one.

Just the kind I wish I could share with my Father.

Just once more.

Constructive Thoughts: Dad

I've had a difficult weekend.

I learned my father has cancer.

He has been fighting benign bladder tumors for several years, but they've not been serious.

Now he has cancer. Prostate cancer.

They're not going to operate, because the physicians figure it would only buy fifteen years, and my father is old enough that they don't expect he has fifteen years anyway.

That's a nice bedside manner, eh?

It has not metastasized, so that's a bit of good news.

As good as it can be, I suppose. Needless to say, it's been tough to concentrate on anything else this weekend. Watching him hold my six-month-old in his arms just minutes after reassuring me of his mortality was nearly more than I could take. The question popped into my mind: would she ever know him, remember him?

I don't know how even to begin putting into words my memories of the stories of and experiences with my father.

Some of my fondest memories of Dad center around the little black-and-white television that stood in Mother and Dad's bedroom for so long, perched precariously upon the little, rickety television stand. The tear-streaked, red, laughing face that always appeared following Barbra Streisand and Ryan O'Neal's race through the streets of San Francisco. Michael Douglas and bulbous-nosed Karl Malden racing through the Streets of San Francisco. There was F.B.I. and Hawaii Five-O. And of course, M*A*S*H*. Nothing (other than What's Up Doc?) would make Dad roar with laughter like Hawkeye's antics or Frank Burns' buffoonery. I didn't always understand the joke, or what was going on in the show, but just to see that twinkle in Dad's eyes was something special.

Dad would get that same twinkle in his eye when he had the opportunity to tease. He loved to tell stories in front of my grandmother about her and my grandfather. I'll never forget how he would tease my siblings' dates and spouses. It was never mean or hurtful; he always knew how far to go and how to do it with love. Dad could also take it well as he could dish it out.

There were the years and years of University of Utah football--Dad's alma mater--that just seemed to end in misery, with Dad frustrated, yelling, and pounding his open hand on the bedspread, and the inevitable gloating telephone call from his brother after every BYU win.(Aside: Of course, now when I do the same thing watching the Utes or the Utah Jazz, it has somehow become "just a game" and I'm told to settle down and just enjoy.) Dad eventually got his fair share of gloating telephone calls in . . . but Dad's brother wasn't nearly as good a sport about getting the calls as he was about making them! Then there were the late nights at the local college watching basketball, while eating smuggled-in popcorn and sodas out of Mother's big white purse--that Dad inevitably ended up carrying into the building.

Dad would also be the one to carry the purse into movies--it was a giant purse, usually filled with home-popped popcorn in supermarket produce sacks and illicit canned sodas. The movies? They were movies such as the interminable Gandhi, Chariots of Fire, and King David experiences. Dad was always trying to broaden my horizons like that--we never seemed to go to the good "fun" movies that I wanted to see, or do the "fun" things that I wanted to do. Instead, it was hours and hours of boredom while we went around on odd jobs while he was unemployed. I can still remember the heat and the boredom--I was never allowed to take a book or any toys, except for a large, plastic, yellow model of a Honda Civic. There were also the (seeming) hours of travel to visit family, or to after-hours business meetings. Traveling to and from anywhere seemed like forever when reading in the car was forbidden.

But Dad made up for those times by introducing me to the dean of science fiction, Robert Heinlein, and to Martin Caidin, and to David Morrell--authors whose names my classmates seldom, if ever, recognized. It was Dad to whom I could turn to discuss books, although it will forever baffle me how his taste in books could be so broad, from Burroughs to Heinlein, from Clancy to L'Amour, but he could never stomach for a moment anything fantasy-related. "Why should I read about something that never happened and never could happen?" he would ask me. "It's just fantasy." The argument would frustrate me and I would simply let it die. Someday I hope to find a fantasy novel that he will read and enjoy . . . Someday.

Dad was forever trying to bring my head out of the clouds. Somehow, it was always he who would assist me with my math homework. He would get so livid at my inability to retain the quadratic formula or simple mathematic definitions, while being able to recite trivia ad nauseam. Sometimes I wonder whether, subconsciously, I did it on purpose, just to harass him. Years later, when I first read David Copperfield, I felt that I could relate in some small way to the terror and anguish young David felt when reciting his lessons (or attempting to) to his step-father. While Dad was never that harsh or brutal, the circumstances were similar--I could never keep the figures in my mind, but would soon find myself thinking about the crack in the wall, or the book I was reading, or anything but my homework. Dad would just get more and more upset. He would pound the table and drill me until I cried, but somehow the numbers would slip away; the more he pounded, the faster the numbers would fly. Inevitably, there would come a point where the futility was apparent and one (or both) of us would flee the table to find sanctuary elsewhere.

I know Dad tried so hard because he loved me. I can see that now; with the benefit of time and the aid of fatherhood, I can see many things more clearly, and I'm grateful for the patience that he showed in trying to teach me. I am grateful for the love he showed in trying to teach me, and for the quiet pride--and the sometimes not-so-quiet pride--he would show at my accomplishments: the first time I ever directed the music in Priesthood Meeting; the first time I ever water-skied; the first time I trailered the boat by myself; the first time I ever backed the trailer down the ramp, or parked the van and trailer; high school, college, and law school graduations; the look--and tears--in his eyes as I boarded the plane for my mission.

However, the feelings of pride are not one-sided. Dad likely does not know the pride I have for him, and the esteem in which I hold him. For example: the years as a Gospel Doctrine teacher, the dedication, knowledge, and spirit he could bring to bear on a given Sunday; the feeling of seeing him lead the congregation in song for many years; the dedication to the service, and the endurance that the many hours of long flights and lonely vigils that flying involved; the firm, quiet testimony he would sometimes stand and bear; hearing my voice blend with his on Sunday, singing hymns; the strength and knowledge in his hands as he would perform some simple chore or repair; and the love with which he has always looked at Mother.

As time goes by, I regret more and more the years I have wasted when I could have been learning from Dad. All those years, complaining about yard work, or helping Dad with the car, plumbing, or other odd jobs; I could have learned so much. Instead, I did as little work as possible--always excusing it with schoolwork, or reading, or any available excuse. When I did help, it was grudgingly, never thinking for a moment that any of what I was being asked to do, or what I could have done, would ever benefit me in my life in any way. Putting it in print even now embarrasses me beyond belief. I remember Dad spending his time to come to summer camp with the Scout troop one year. I am mortified now to think of how embarrassed I was to have my Dad there, lecturing to my buddies and taking them to task. Or at family reunions when I was too concerned about my own activities and pleasure to listen to and learn from Dad the stories of my heritage. Or the plethora of times I was too annoyed to listen to the lectures and the lessons he was trying to teach me.

I see now that I spent too long blinded by my youth to recognize the storehouse of knowledge that is Dad. If I was ever to tell him that I consider him such, he would pass it off as vain praise, but to me it is a statement of truth. Dad worked so hard with me as a Scout to learn knot-tying; to this day, I have to struggle to remember a simple square knot--anything more complex is beyond my abilities. He struggled to get me to achieve my Citizenship merit badges; how much that knowledge could have helped me in school classes if I had bothered to learn it! (Aside: "Learn it" rather than "know it long enough to pass off the merit badge.") There is so much I could have learned from him as a child that would have enriched my life and helped me to grow. Instead, I was too "busy" and just didn't care--there would always be another time, after all. In retrospect, I wonder just how much my inattention and my uncaring attitude hurt Dad. I know that it did, and hope that I can make up for that injury someday, somehow.

As I look back, I am amazed at how Dad's work troubles never seemed to impact the family, at least not that I ever saw. He was able to separate his professional and family lives, and not let the stress of daily life interfere with his time with his wife and children. He was always able to provide a wonderful Christmas or birthday for us, and he always had a little something--usually a Matchbox car (in the old cardboard box) and a packet of airline peanuts--tucked away in his suitcase every time he came home from a trip. Those little gifts always made me feel so special, showing me that he had he had thought about me and missed me while he was away.

More recently, it has been a joy to grow closer to Dad as an adult friend. The rapport I feel and the snippets of telephone conversations we have back and forth while watching Everybody Loves Raymond or a particularly gritty NBA game ("Where was the foul?!") are priceless and important to me. So is being able to discuss the gospel with one another and to be taught by his example, or having someone there to whom I can turn for advice. Most importantly, as one who was not able to fully experience the joys of vital and vigorous grandparents, it is touching beyond words to see the expressions of love and the level of devotion that Dad shows my children. In some ways, I am able to imagine what it would have been like for me to have the opportunity to truly know my grandparents, and can vicariously enjoy the thrills, joys, and love that my children feel for their grandfather.

I can only hope that, one day, I can be as good a grandfather as he has been to the Horde. I only hope that I can be as good a father-in-law to my children's future spouses as he has been to his. I can only hope that I can be as good a father to my children as he has been to his.

I'm going to jealously guard every moment I have with him. Hoard every snippet of family lore I can gather. Glean every bit of life-knowledge from him that I can. Ask for his advice while I can get it.

Make him proud of me.

And love him while I can.

I love you, Dad.

Constructive Thoughts: Fatherhood

Greetings....Due to a migraine the past two days, I'm a little late with this post.

I have this group of buddies from High School and College. We still get together once or twice a month for a game night--our version of Poker night, I suppose. No poker is played, but we may play some board games, various card games, or some Role-Playing Games. Whatever strikes our fancy, in other words. Each of us leaves our wives and family at home and congregate for six hours or so of manly fun.

It started me thinking; the first thing that came to my mind were the teachings of two modern-day prophets: "No other success in life can compensate for failure in the home" (David O. McKay (1964)) and "The greatest work you will ever do will be within the walls of your own home." (Harold B. Lee (1973)). That in turn made me go even deeper. Are my priorities in order? Do I give my best time to those who mean the most to me? Does my family get steak and ice cream? Or do they get the left-overs: reheated hot dogs and warm soda? (And I'm talking the beef/chicken/pork wieners, not the all-beef kind).

So, I jumped on the internet and started doing a little research. The first thing that popped up was a discourse printed in 1973, recently re-printed in a 2002 issue of the Ensign magazine. The article was entitled, appropriately enough: Father, Consider Your Ways.

Let's just say that after reading this article, there were a lot more concerns on my mind than simply steak versus "mystery meat" wieners. There's a lot in there and I'd highly recommend any of my male readers to gird their loins and take a gander. In the interest of time, I'm only going to touch upon a couple of the article's points.

First, a father is a teacher, we're told.

LW and I home-school the Horde. We yearn after wide open spaces--maybe even some woods--on and in which the Horde can play, explore, and learn. What we have now is nice and large, but still: not to worry about neighbors, neighborhoods, strangers, et cetera? What would that be worth?

OK. I digressed. Suffice it to say, we home-school the Horde.

Realize, when I say WE home-school, I mean that my LW home-schools and I...ummm..., well, I'm the Principal who more-often-than-not stumbles over a history or art notebook on my way to my favorite chair. I admit that to my shame, actually.

And after reading the article? I admit that NOW with even more shame. New and improved guilt.

Teaching, this article reminds me, "is accomplished by precept and example. You cannot be one thing and effectively teach another."

Wow.

Now, I have not done anything REALLY bad. Most of the Ten Commandments are reasonably out-of-range and safe. But still, I can remember both times I ever heard my mother or father use a four-letter word. And by both, I mean once each. I mean, I can remember CLEARLY. Where I was, the circumstances surrounding them. Not sure of my ages, but I can remember just about everything else. They just never used the words, although I'm sure I gave them cause once in a while.

Me? Hmmm.... Not so much.

Don't get me wrong; I don't use the worst of the worst. I'm not even in the same class as the father from the movie A Christmas Story. But if I slice my thumb open with a carving knife or wrack my shin on the piano bench, the family usually knows about it in loud and certain terms.

I can gain some aid and support from the article as well as the guilt, though: "Your children may or may not choose to follow you, but the example you give is the greatest light you hold before your children, and you are accountable for that light." While that is a daunting statement, it also provides a crutch--remembering the examples I have set and the example I MUST set and for which I'm accountable--that gives me an impetus to do better.

Second, a father is responsible for the welfare of his family, we're told.

Specifically,

"It is God's plan that you work for what you get. Your occupation should be honorable and should provide sufficiently to meet the needs of your family. Are your duties and labors undertaken with a joyful and thankful spirit? Do your wife and children feel secure because you feel good about your occupation?"

I'm in trouble here as well. While I believe my occupation is honorable (although some would beg to differ [insert your own lawyer joke here] ) and while our needs are met (barely), I cannot truthfully say that I undertake anything in my professional life with a joyful and thankful spirit. I certainly don't feel good about my occupation; rather, I do not necessarily feel good about my current employment situation. While my LW understands how I feel, I do my best to hide it from the Horde. They certainly do not need that worry in their life.

You see, I grew up in a family that was living on the razor's edge and I never knew it until I was married. I was taught that a Big Mac was two sandwiches and should be eaten that way. My mother froze Arby's sandwiches that she bought in bulk when they went on sale. My parents did odd jobs throughout my childhood to supplement the household income and I never thought twice about it. I never knew that we did not have money, until--as I said--I was married. I still am not convinced I know just how poorly off we were.

And that, I think, is how it should be. That is how I try to raise the Horde.

But the "happiness in my labors" factor? Not so much. As most of you know, I am not extremely happy in my current situation. Most of that is because of inner-office politics. However, I will admit a portion of that unhappiness comes from a personal negative attitude.

Even worse, I am afraid that the Horde--or at least, the older members--are all too aware of my unhappiness. That's not a very good example. And I don't know--honestly--how secure they feel. I'm afraid to ask them, frankly.

What can be done? Well, obviously the complaining about the job while I am around the Horde--that has to stop. The "joyful and thankful spirit" that I have to cultivate? I'll have to take a second look--or third, fourth, and fifth look--at my attitude and try and do better. Maybe looking for a change in atmosphere would not be a bad thing.

What I know is that I'm going to have to change.

"Father, you are accountable to the Lord for what you have and what you are. In the future you will surely stand before Him. What will be your report concerning your family? Will you be able to report that your home was a place of love, a bit of heaven? . . . Will you be able to report that you created an environment in your home to build faith in a living God, to encourage learning, to teach order, obedience, and sacrifice? . . . The day will come when you will stand before the Lord and report your stewardship as a father on earth. Father, consider your ways. What will be your report?"

A lot to think about. What do I need to change?

Does my monthly game night have to go? Do I sufficiently balance that time with time given to my family? Something to consider....

Family definitely comes before anything at the office, a fact that my boss does not appreciate and only barely tolerates.

Does my family come before the internet? before blogging? before television? before books? Yes, yes, yes, and yes.

"It takes hard work and planning to rear your children in righteousness and have unity with your wife, to build a constant feeling of love and harmony in the home."

What do I need to change?

What will be my report?