No, well ok...

When did the first day of school start costing parents more than Christmas or any other holiday?

I know Santa picks up the cost for Christmas, so it is a given that the first day of school would cost more than that holiday. But every other holiday, including Thanksgiving, Halloween and even throw in the 4th of July; they all seem to cost less than the money I recently spent on the first day of school. Am I right? Amen!!!

In fact, if you add up all of the money I spent on Valentine’s day, Memorial Day, Flag Day, Boxer’s Day and Labor Day, combined, it would still cost less than what I shelled out over the weekend. And, take it from me, I was not alone.

I sat inside Target, with about 400 other parents, wandering around looking at a never-ending list of cleaning solutions, paper towels, hand wipes, pencils, paper, pens, pen boxes, yada, yada, yada. There was such a rush on school supplies that Target completely ran out of erasers. And don’t even get me started on the new clothes I had purchased weeks before.

OK, so I should not complain. That is why I work and that is why my kids picked me, to be their dad. Because, somewhere deep down inside of me they know that I am a sucker. I can’t say no. I have no ability to tell them that they can’t get this or they can’t get that.

I would love to have me as my dad. I would clean me out big time. It would be an endless array of new shoes, cars, clothes, backpacks, iPods. Whatever. It would not matter. It would be my world, and I would be living in it.

But I am not the only one that my kids take advantage of. When my dad comes into town, it is even worse. They will convince him to go back to the concession stand five and six times during one half of Boston’s football games. At some point, he just relented and signed over his car.

My biggest problem is that everything seems to be important at the time of purchase. But looking back now, I can think of a couple things that don’t seem all the important. Like, why did I have to get Sydney botox? I mean, sure she looks great, but did she really need it. She is only three.

And was it so important that I go to California and fly MC Hammer back to Vegas and have him personally illustrate how important it is for Boston to know that he is "Too legit to quit." To me, that just seems a little excessive.

But in my defense, that was not one of MC Hammer's most successful songs, so it was cheaper than say, "You can't touch this," which was just too outlandish to even consider.

But those things pale in comparison to the time London and Brooklyn asked me to bring one of the Jonas Brothers to their neighborhood party. Sure the airfare was expensive, but it was all of the extras that killed me. 50 gallons of Evian water, backstage, does that not seem to smack of self importance?

So I am determined. I have made up my mind. I am resolute. I will not bend. I am solely focused on completely turning over a new leaf. Without question, I will start saying no and I’ll mean it. But first, I have to run down and pick up the new pony I ordered for my kids. But when I get back, it is going to be no, no, no. Well, unless someone really needs something. Let's not get crazy with the no.

Dance, Dance, Dance...

“Every rose has its thorn. Yeah it does.” I was reminded of this phrase last Sunday night as I was swimming with friends in my pool. As this particular ballad started playing, I was instantly transported back in time to a particular high school stomp (dance) where I fondly remember dancing with Dana Whittle and softly singing along to the words playing over the speakers in the gym.

Although I had no talent in signing, I made up for it in a lack of timing and pitch. I truly had the trifecta working for me that night, but it did not matter. Nothing was going to dampen my enthusiasm. It was 1989, I was in high school and my feet were sliding all over the floor from the sawdust they put down to protect the basketball court. Life felt good. I felt alive. I was dancing. I was in heaven.

At that point in life, I knew every rose had a thorn. It made so much sense. I also knew how to walk like an Egyptian and do the Humpty Dance.

Fast forward to 2008. I still love music and I still love to dance. However, if I want to hear that same sweet music played over speakers, I drive down to the New York New York to the dueling pianos. Here, two professionals play the best music from the 80s and 90s for the highest bidder. They, unlike me, have rhythm style and grace and get paid to sing on a nightly basis. They are professionals. Not wanting to compete with them, I have long stopped singing in the ears of others and because people always told me to stop. Which is rude, rude, rude.

But dancing. Dancing is another story all together. Dancing is something that can’t be cured. I have the disease and there is not antidote. Although, if you would like to donate to a cure, simply send me a check for no less than $20 and I will begin the appropriate research.

One night, in particular, as I sat and listened to the show, I heard a familiar tune. It was a sound from the past and before my mind could process the information, my body began moving to the beat. I started to move, then shake, which led to dancing. Full on dancing. I felt it. Everyone felt it. People began to cheer, not loudly at first, but it soon turned into a palpable energetic rhythm that could not be controlled.

As “Play that funky music white boy,” boomed from the piano, I did what any true dance junky would have done. I started moving and shaking and something to the rhythm, and just when it hit me, I screamed, play that funky music white boy, ahhooooooo.

Yes, my dance moves had whipped the place into hysterics. And while all good things generally come to an end, this was no exception. But being the ultimate performer, just as the song was concluding, I decided to take it to another level, which left me somewhere in mid-air contemplating, why I was trying to do the splits (maybe it is the yoga) at 35, when I had not been able to do them at 25, 15 or even 5.

My brain seemed to understand the pain I would be in, but my body did not seem to care, that is until I hit the ground somewhere between grace and goofiness. But not being one to stop a show, I sprang to my feet with my fist in the air, waving it like I just did not care. But in actuality, I cared. I cared a lot. I was hurting, with a capital H. So, after three or fours waves to the crowd; I ran out the front of the establishment and headed for home. The good news, I can still walk. The bad news, I have a slight limp.

The night was not a total failure. When I went home, I made each of my kids make me a trophy which crowned me, Funkiest White Boy, New York New York. It’s not much, but it is something that I have on my resume.

And while many of you would try to eradicate the rhythm from my soul, it just does seem to be possible. Monday, as I was driving home from Mesquite, that same iPod that started it all was blaring my favorite songs from today, when I looked in the rear view mirror in horror as I watched Boston, sitting in the back of the car, movin’ and groovin’ to the music.

So what am I to do, it’s hereditary. I guess it is a disease and I am just going to have to live with.

PS – Make the checks out to the Matthew Brimhall fund for eradicating embarrassing behavior that shames his family, wife and those within view of his moves.

Hurry, only you can prevent uncontrolled dance moves.

From the future...

We were shocked and surprised to find the following communication in Holly's email inbox this morning. We're not sure how or why this happened, only that we feel very fortunate to have received it and we'll surely learn from all it has to offer. For those of you who were not lucky enough to receive such a communication (maybe you don't like yourself in the future) we decided to post this most precious gift below. Enjoy.

Holly - This is an email from you, from the future. I know, totally exciting. Anyway, I wanted to write you and let you know that you are getting ready to go through the most amazing time of your life.

Life here is great and we are all so very tan. In the future you will love and appreciate your husband even more than you do today. I know, I totally did not think it was possible either, and you must think I am crazy, but hey, I'm from the future, I have to be right.

However, if you are going to be truly happy you should buy him a number of very expensive gifts. Nothing cheap or ill-fitting, but really nice stuff. Things he would love. Then, just to make yourself even more happy, go on and on about how spectacular he is and about how much he does for you. And don't forget about the gifts. They work wonders.

Oh yeah, don't worry about Red Bull either. It is the only thing we drink in the future. They recently found out that large consumptions of this beverage make you immortal.

PS - Not that you were worried, but your hair looks GREAT. But really, why should that change.

LOVE YA,

Holly Brimhall

PSS - Your boobs get even bigger. It’s something in the water, we think. However, we still are not sure why it's happening. Anyway, you'll LOVE them. I think Matt has something to do with this as well, but it could never be proved in a court of law.

(Editor's note:) If you want to get or send an email from the future, simply log onto your partner's email account at Yahoo, or whatever they use, and address it to them and send. It is simple really, but seems so futuristic at the same time.

Home of Scholars and Champions ...

It is amazing how long a phrase or mantra will stick with you. Back in 1989, when I started high school, the institution, no not mental, lacked a certain amount of school pride.

Students could be seen arguing with their teachers in class, vandalizing the school and even yelling face-to-face with their respective coaches during the middle of athletic contests.

To say it was mass hysteria would be an overstatement, but the school did lack a certain sense of accomplishment, which was further proved when the principal found his Volkswagen Bug parked in the middle of the hall on the third floor, inside the school.

Maybe because he thought the car jacking was a sign, he resigned and a new executive was installed. Although we did not expect to see any differences, it became apparent that we would no longer be allowed to disrespect the school or its tradition.

And while there were many changes installed under the new administration, one caught my eye and was emblazoned into my soul. It was a simple change, to the outside world, but a historical shift in the values and beliefs of those students who called Cyprus home.

Prior to the beginning of the school year, this new principal had a phrase installed on the side of the school, in huge block letters. The phrase? Cyprus High School, Home of Scholars and Champions. Was the phrase encouraging, yes, somewhat. But at the time, we did not understand the power it would have to positively change our behavior.

Soon, however, that phrase was everywhere. We said it after each wind sprint we ran at football practice; it was artistically displayed in the lunchroom, the auditorium and throughout the halls on every floor.

To further solidify the message, the principal would walk through the cafeteria at lunch and if he saw a piece of paper on the floor he would take out a mega-phone and ask students to dispose of this trash accordingly because, as he put it, that is not what champions do. He walked on the sidelines during our athletic contests and encouraged us with those simple words, “You are a champion.”

Did it work? We took first place in our division that year in football. We went to the state playoffs in basketball and our tennis team excelled beyond all reasonable expectations. And while those goals were certainly fulfilling, it pales in comparison to the mantra that those who attended the school continue to carry with them.

For proof, you simply have to visit my sister’s blog. After all these years (sorry, Missy) she still describes herself as a scholar and a champion. But more important than the description of herself, is the fact that once you believe that you are a champion, failure ceases to be an option.

And while this mantra was powerful when we went to Cyprus, being a champion is something that continues to carry us through each and everyday.

“Brimhall, Brimhall pick on one and you pick on them all,” was a simple phrase that my dad taught us when we were young. However, it is now something that my children say, and their children will say. It is a phrase that we write on our shirts at our family reunions and something that we believe when we feel like we are alone. It is a powerful remembrance of those that love you. It shows unity and more importantly, displays the strength of a family unit. It is something I care deeply about. Without question, it is a huge aspect of my life.

Find a mantra, repeat it. Write it down. Teach it to those you love. But be careful, it will most likely stick with you for the rest of your life.

Too cute for her own good...

Holly almost never swears. Except when she does. And even then, it is much less than a longshoreman, but maybe just a little more frequent than a sailor. So it should come as no surprise that one of Sydney’s favorite words is ****.

Now, not being one to kiss and tell, I am not going to say which word she loves to use, but no one needs to call the division of child services, this is more of a bible swear word than anything.

Some people don’t like people to swear, but if they heard how cute Sydney is, I think they would change their mind. “**** this Barbie, I can’t get her shoes on,” may sound vulgar in print, but coming out of her cute face, it seems almost angelic.

Or, “**** I want chocolate milk, not white milk,” may get some kids grounded, but at our house it only makes our trip to change out the milk much more entertaining. It is almost hard to get mad at her. In fact, it is. It’s completely impossible.

But it is not just our family members who think she is cute when she “expresses herself.” Just last week, we were at the grocery store and she said, “Mom, I want to get some of those **** crackers.” People three rows over were busting a gut. But not me, I was laughing hysterically.

So, my advice to parents everywhere: Don’t sweat it if your kid is going to swear, just make sure they look cute doing it.

That seems to be the only thing that matters.

Potty Talk...

What is it with kids and potty talk? They are obsessed. You can’t have a two-minute conversation without a kid between the ages of 3-12 trying to work it into a sentence.

And if they can’t work it into the sentence, sometimes they will just blurt it out to make them feel better.

Take last Sunday night. I, being a fabulous father, gathered our kids together, shut off the TV, radio, Internet, etc. and sat down with our family and started to play charades. However, I wanted the kids to be invested in this game as well, so I asked them to each write down ten activities and place them in a bowl, so when they said, "Who wrote this stupid idea down," it would have come from them and not me. Harmless, right? A perfect little family sitting down together, acting. What could go wrong?

I was wrong. It quickly became clear after the first three pieces of paper were drawn, that these kids are 100 percent obsessed with potty talk. Poop was the first word drawn from the bowl. I can forgive this, I thought to myself. Pooping is an activity. And although it may not be what I had in mind, it did fall into the ground rules I had set for the game.

After we guessed poop, I sat excitedly, waiting to see what we would act out next. Although I should not have been surprised, the second word presented to the group was poop throw. Now I am not even sure this is a real activity, but I let them have the benefit of the doubt, to keep the game rolling. However, when the third word was pooping, I had to stop the game.

I could not believe that we had picked three selections, out of thirty, and all three had to deal directly or indirectly with fecal matters. "Enough," I stated. "No more poop. No more potty talk, no more anything about the bathroom." Laughing under their breaths, they all agreed.

Then, as Brooklyn picked out the fourth selection, I watched in astonishment as she proceeded to act out something she thought said poop corn. And while I am not sure what a poop corn is, I did see it acted out with a great deal of effort.

When I asked to see the paper, it said popcorn. “That is it,” I said. “No more poop talk. I am sick of this.”

And, if by fate, as I stood up to walk out of the room, Sydney came running in and said, “What is wrong, Poopy Daddy.” Then she proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh.

And while this fascination boggles my mind, it is something that seems to have been around since we started having kids. However, as your kids get older, you do start to see a distinct change in a child’s openness with these movements (pun intended).

For example, when Boston was the tender age of four, he would walk into Holly’s Salon, downstairs in our home, while she was working on a client and say, “Mom, I have to…” and then sensing that he should not say what he had to do, he would place his hand by his behind and open it up 5 or six time and make a gassy noise that sounded like the longest and loudest toot in the world.

Yes. It was very subtle. No one had any idea what he meant. No one had any idea that he had to go to the bathroom. But once Holly said OK, he would run off to do his business and when he came back he would never let onto what he had done. Somehow, he understood that this is something that we talk about less and less as we grow up and become young adults.

But if things are complex when we are younger, things get much more sticky when we become adults. Adults will do anything to hide that they are going, have to go or ever went at all.

I can recall, with distinct clarity, coming home from a dinner at a friend's house where I must have had 15 bottles of water. Holly’s mom and dad were staying with us and I had to sleep with the kids, in their bunk bed. In the middle of the night, I woke up and was 100 percent sure that Boston had peed on me.

That is, until I realized, I had peed on him. Not my proudest moment, but sadly, not my most infamous either. I quickly ran downstairs and let Holly know that Boston had peed the bed. I acted disgusted as I quickly hid the fact that it was me that was soaking wet from my waist down, while he was mostly dry.

So maybe our kids have had it right all along. Maybe it is us adults who have it wrong. It is only a natural aspect of being a human. Let’s take a firm stand and be absolute in that fact that we will no longer be ashamed when we pee the bed, write poop in a game of charades or use it for a nickname for our father….Let’s embrace our humanness and feel pride when it is time to, ahhh, go.

Maybe I need a prescription…

Since Holly and I have been participating in our Bikram Yoga classes, we have started to focus on what makes our bodies feel better. Surprisingly, I concluded that my body is basically allergic to white flour, ranch, pasta and chips. I should have picked up on this fact years ago, as anyone who knows me will attest.

Nevertheless, I always tried to ignore my allergies and attempted to sweep them under the rug. Many times I would simply chalk my discomfort up to the combining of foods that should not go together. Like take Twinkies and beef for an example. Even though the combination sounds good, some would even say terrific, it can be deadly when eaten together.

It is in this role of self discovery that I sat down and decided it was time I made a list of the other things that make me ill. After a great deal of meditation, I came up with six things that cause me bodily harm.

And while this list is posted on the blog, it is also taped to my refrigerator so I don't accidentally slip up. You can't be too careful these days when you're dealing with allergies of this magnitude.

· Heavy Lifting: I know this is something I should love, but I think I’m allergic to lifting furniture, refrigerators, pianos and sofas. I seem to break out in a huge sweat when I lift these, especially when I am asked to move them from room to room “just to see how it would look.”

· Bad Hair: I realize that I would have bad hair if I were not married to Holly. However, I am so against bad hair that I would advise anyone I know to find a stylist who can make your look happen everyday. It is so worth it.

· Bad TV: TV is now the most overrated and under performing medium in our lives. There is nothing on TV that makes me fascinated, intrigued or mildly entertained. It only makes matters worse that our kids hide and break the remotes, forcing me to stick to one channel for an entire 11 minutes until a commercial break. Without a remote, I refuse to watch anymore. It is too painful and a complete waste of time.

· The fact that John McCain looks older everyday: Although he may have a fighting chance to become our next president, it does not help the Republican Party that he looks more and more like a grandfather getting ready to enter a nursing home than he looks like a president preparing to enter the White House.

· A lack of time: I want more and more time. Time where I can choose what I want to do, not what I have to do. I want to drive across the country, making occasional stops at national monuments and waffle houses. Yes, in some states, those are one in the same. I realize that. But I want a chance to explore the country and see what’s good.

· When people I like say, “Let’s call it a night.”: No. Let’s NOT call it a night. Let’s stay up and swap stories until the sun comes up. Let’s have fun. I hate when people want to call it a night. I always want to say, “Let’s call it a weekend, and hang out until Monday morning.” I think this problem goes back to the allergic reaction to the bullet point above.

I pretty much like everything else. In fact, I love the following things:

1. Running outside: I love to be outside, running. It clears your mind, body and soul. Everything seems possible after a five mile run.

2. Yoga inside: It teaches you how to love yourself, with a truly unconditional heart.

3. Tennis: There is a certain ping of the racket that almost puts you into a trance when you hit with someone good.

4. Kickball: My kids love it. I love it. It’s perfect.

5. Swimming: Ahh, so refreshing.

6. Having friends over: Nothing is better than good friends and good conversation.

7. Blackberries: Puts everyone you know, in the palm of your hand.

8. Texting: It is so easy and so much fun and it provides you with an instant hook-up to your best friends.

9. Blogging: Trying to write something people will read is a challenge that is fun, I think.

10. Reading other blogs: I love to read what others write. Plus, when you see them, they instantly know you care because you took the time to read.

11. Eating pasta, French bread and ranch: I know, this is cruel irony.

12. Bulldogs. I LOVE bulldogs. Why won't anyone let me take care of their bulldog? Or just give me one?

13. Singing along with the iPod: All your favorite songs in one place, what could be better.

14. Playing with my kids: I love to see them happy and doing something that totally makes them excited.

15. Singing with my kids: I love to hear my kids sing a song they love.

16. Madden Football 2009: Every year I decide not to buy it and every year I get it the fist day, program the Chargers in and start beating butt. Love it.

17. The San Diego Chargers: Who does not love the Chargers? Lighting bolt on the helmet, powder blue jerseys. Shawn Merriman. The best city in the United States.

18. Dancing: Not real dancing, but jumping up and down in a mosh pit type of style. Especially to good music. Yes. Really good music.

19. The beach: Walking hand in hand with your kids, jumping waves and feeling the sand under your feet. Awesome.

20. California: The air smells better. The people are great and the food tastes like you’re a Hollywood star. I love California.

21. Vacations: You have the pre-vacation build up, which is great. The post-vacation glow, which is tremendous and the in-vacation who cares about anything but what I am doing right now bliss, which is unbeatable.

22. Ties: Thick ties, with a huge knot are boss.

23. Linen Pants: Although they always wrinkle and only look good for about the first six times you wear them, nothing says cool like linen pants.

24. Nice shoes: Really nice shoes, feel great, look great and make you taller. That, my friend, is as much as you could ask from anybody.

25. Watches: I love putting a thick, heavy watch on my wrist. The weight and the class, makes everything else you are wearing somehow seem better.

26. Redbox: Late fees, yes, but not as many.

27. Pizza: How could you not love pizza? Especially if it is a little on the doughy side.

28. People who play the piano: Rock N Roll never sounded so grand.

29. Swedish Fish: I have eaten more Swedish Fish in my life, than I have eaten real fish. Plus, some of my favorite memories are eating too many fish, while laughing too much.

30. The HOT TUB: Come on, it’s hot and it makes your muscles feel alright. And that’s a good thing.

31. GQ: Best mag ever.

32. XM Radio: All music, all the time.

33. REM: This is a music group, who although they may have peaked, had some of the greatest tunes of my high school life.

34. Las Vegas: Excellent service, tons to do. Great people, having the time of their lives. I love Las Vegas.

35. Montana: I love the people, the landscape and the lakes. What a beautiful location. And if you believe my friend, Vinnie, the football is world-class.

36. Mountain air: So crisp, so clean. You always feel better just being in the mountains and breathing in and out.

37. Cows: Is there anything more beautiful and majestic than a cow?

38. Bulls: I used to be afraid of bulls, until I started riding them when I was in the first grade, now, I love them.

39. Red Bull: The sweet, tangy nectar of excitement and energy.

40. Atari: This was the best game system around when I was growing up. I almost started our house on fire because the system overheated when I scored a million points on Asteroids.

OK. I know. I love a lot more things than I’m allergic to. But I would’t have it any other way. What do you love and what are you sick of?

30 Day Challenge…?

As a founding member of Las Vegas’ most exciting Runner’s Club, I take great pride in bringing a number of topics to the table every morning. These topics range for the insane to the asinine.

It’s critical that every member of the runner’s club bring something to talk about or you are all forced to sit around and listen to each other pant and breathe.

And, even more important, you need your topic to be a conversation starter. You want a topic that sparks a great debate and gives everyone a chance to respond and get involved. The best topics are those that people can one-up. For instance, you may reminisce about the time you threw up a pound of Swedish Fish, just outside the movie theater, when you and your dad were watching The Naked Gun in ninth grade.

As a side bar, I was happy to throw up after the movie, because it hid the pee spot on my pants. Am I right? That was a hilarious movie. In fact, I had to give my dad the Heimlich maneuver during it, because he was laughing so hard a fish became lodged in his wind pipe. This was back when Swedish Fish were a lot bigger than they are now, and they came in big barrels of candy at the grocery store.

Which reminds me of the time Justin Brown, Jeff Hatch and I were at a grocery store in Utah and Justin begin eating as many gummy bears as he could, right from the barrel. We kept telling ourselves we were just sampling the batch, but after 50 or so, they asked us to leave.

But not to get too far off topic, these morning topics are best when they make people think and even better when they help you to forget that you have 4.2 miles left to go.

This morning, my brain started thinking about an article I had read in the NY Times, which is an excellent thing to start off a conversation with, because it proves you can read and gives you instant credibility.

In fact, I learned this conversation tool from Jeremy Jones’ uncle on a family vacation one year. He was excellent "confirmer," and everyone greatly appreciated him. During group conversation, he would validate anyone’s claim with a quick confirmation that was simple and precise. For example I would say, “Global warming is up 25 percent this year.” And he would jump in immediately after and say, “You’re right, I read that in Time Magazine.”

I always appreciated that guy. Being young and naive, I would sometimes make up facts and stories, however, he never missed a beat in protecting me. Together, we could have traveled the world selling snake oil to retired folks.

Never the less, the article I am referring to in the NY Times, discussed the antics of two separate married couples, who had recently written books about their commitment to have sex with each other every day for an entire year.

The article chronicled the fact that many married couples have little time to spend together in today’s busy environment and went so far as to say that if a couple made more time to spend together, in the bedroom, the divorce rate that continues to increase would begin to dissipate.

And while I can only assume that couples who spend more time together, are happier, I was not really focused on this element of the article.

Instead, my mind instantly started to consider if the high percentages that are associated with birth control are due to the effectiveness of the birth control in itself or if they really are effective based on the lack of time that couples spend together.

I started thinking that we could really be looking at 50 percent effectiveness rate from birth control and 50 percent from lack of time together. Really, in all actuality, this could be a huge crap shoot. Something that may be as sure as crossing a busy street at rush hour. Everyone knows that there is a 50 percent chance you are going to get hit by a car at rush hour if you dart across the street. However, on the bright side, there is that same 50 percent chance that you will make it through and live another day.

And if you are paying attention, you will quickly realize that this "Running across the street" study was, in fact, performed by Time magazine, and is still one of my favorites. I think it was done in '89, could have been '90. I don't really recall.

And while the other members of the Runner's Club did not share my same enthusiasm over this new discovery, I was enthralled. However, I did notice that many of the members started running a little faster after this assertion, which made the run that much better, and resulted in a successful morning for us all.

So, today, in the glow of my discovery. I challenge all married people everywhere to take the 30 day challenge and spend “time” every night with your spouse. Not only will it make you closer, it will allow me to test this new birth control theory.

And, because I know you all like guarantees in life, I am 100 percent sure that it will make you happier. At least that is what I read in Time magazine.

Dad...

If I had to make a list of what makes me happy, it would be long and detailed. I love my kids. I love to spend time with my wife. I love doing yoga and I love being outside, working out or doing anything that is related to sports.

But something I love to do, but few people know, is that I like to get up very early in the morning on a Sunday or a Saturday and drive around down town or through the city. This is something I am sure came from my dad, as he used to wake me up early on the weekends and take me to Dees Family Restaurant or through downtown Salt Lake, long before anyone in city woke up.

He loved walking around when everything was quiet. Frankly, this almost led to his ultimate demise, when I became a teenager and started to sleep in. This forced him to take my sister with him one morning on a beach in Mexico. They were jumping waves, alone, when one wave picked him up, knocked him down and cut his head and shoulder. He came back to the hotel room looking like he had been in a knife fight. Head bleeding. Shoulder bleeding. Hat, somewhere in the ocean. Missing swim trunks. It was quite an ordeal.

My dad taught me so many things about life and I love him for it. He taught me how to interact with people and how to make them laugh. He ensured that I always treated others with respect and inspired me to do my best.

Growing up in my house, you automatically were employed as a member of the Red Flame catering business. It did not matter how old you were or how inept you were, you were hired. My first such soirée included an awkward scene where my dad asked me to put dry ice into the punch bowl at a wedding we were doing. Needless to say, dry ice is hot and I was worried about getting burned, so I just kind of dropped it into the punch bowl and hurried back to the kitchen.

Moments later, I was summoned back out to explain why red punch was sparkled over all the walls and over some of the bride’s maid. My dad quickly decided to change to a peach colored, less staining, punch in the future.

The summer was when we did our most damage. We would go on three or four catering parties every day, ranging from the women’s prison to water parks around town. It was in the summer when my dad and I really had a chance to hang out. One such day we were late for setting up a party, which always stressed my dad out, and made me want to work that much harder. At this particular party, we had to bring the chairs, which were heavy restaurant chairs, for the guests to sit on. We were unloading chairs for hours and I could tell we were going to be late.

At this point, I decided to start unloading rows at a time. After 400 chairs or so and 100 degree temperature, I turned to my dad and realized that I had a full-blown bloody nose from heat exhaustion. This was not a trickle, but more like someone had opened the flood gates to my nose blood. He looked at me and was like, whoa, you better come have a seat in the shade. Then he told me how much he loved me for working so hard and that he was very proud of me. I was so happy that he felt my love for him. I always wanted to show him that I would do anything for him and that a bloody nose was nothing in regards to how much I cared.

During the family reunion, I watched my dad take care of my son and was so grateful that Boston has the same type of relationship I do with my dad. They walked all over the resort together and I loved seeing them hang out. Once when we were in Salt Lake, the three of us were sitting outside, eating ice cream and my dad was telling us a story or two and I felt so happy to be so connected, dad, son and grandson.

I can only hope that I will have the same impact on my son as my dad has on me.

The whole truth...

So, my son is getting pretty good at lying. But I guess it is not his fault. Really, he is just a chip off the Ol’ block, as they would say.

Earlier today, Boston went into great detail to tell me how much fun they had, what they had done and what they were wearing when they went to the park to play. I had asked him to take London and Brooklyn to play at the park for at least two hours, to get them out of the house and to see if they could beat the 118 degree weather.

His story was very convincing. So convincing, that I believed him hook, lie and sinker. I was so proud of myself, because I was even trying to trip him up by asking extra specific details about the visit, down to what color of sandals were worn, to see if they had really gone. Without hesitation, every answer was communicated perfectly. I was convinced. Case closed. I got the TRUTH and the TRUTH had been set free. Lord have Mercy!

Only three hours later, I found out that the truth, although it is out there, was not in the story I was told.

To say I was shocked, was putting it mildly. The shock brought me back to an occasion in my youth when I may have fabricated a story or two. In fact, one certain mom (not mine) was convinced that we were heading off to do a service project late one night (who does a service project at 10 p.m.? Really, it's not my fault when people are this gullible), when, in all actuality, we were planning on decorating Cyprus High School, home of scholars and champions, for senior graduation. Decorating may be in fact, the wrong word, unless you consider dumping 500 pounds of Styrofoam peanuts an enhancement to the school grounds.

(Note: It really was 500 pounds of peanuts, somebody Devin Despain, I think, worked at a packing plant and had access to loads and loads of Styrofoam peanuts…I would not have believed it either, but I saw it and it happened. I remember the truck pulling up with the biggest, most grand bag of Styrofoam peanuts I have ever seen. Devin was in the back, sitting on the peanuts like a emperor, on his throne. Once he pulled up, it would have been a complete waste not to grab the bag and dump it on the school grounds. And, after dumping them on the grounds, it would have been tragic not to start a peanut fight. I may be a liar, but I am not wasteful.)

In fact, our first stretch of the truth only led us to a second stretch when a kind-hearted police officer pulled us over and asked if we had anything to do with the peanut drop. We assured him that we did not, even as I sat in the back with pounds of peanuts in my pockets, shirt and all over in my hair. It was the 90's my hair was totally gelled. For some reason, even today, when I see 500 pounds of Styrofoam peanuts, I have a great desire to run as fast as I can and slide through them; just like I did that night.

And while the police officer believed us and let us go, we were not so fortunate when we got home and someone found out that we were not at a service project. Undaunted, however, we told her that the service project was not in our area and that she was simply mistaken.

Which brings me to the point of the story. Sometimes, you just have to lie. You don’t want to, you don’t think it’s right, but you get caught in trying to please everyone and you feel that your hand is forced.

I hate to let people down. It’s hard for me and obviously, from today’s lesson, it is hard for my son. He did not want to face the fact that he was going to let me down, so he made it up. He thought it would be better to lie, than to have someone he cared about upset with him. I totally get that and, sadly, he probably gets "that" from me.

However, there is hope. Boston and I are patiently learning from Holly. She is quite possibly the most honest person in the world and our only chance at salvation. In fact, when we first got married my dad and I were sitting at the airport with her, watching her fill out an application to work for the airlines. Anyhow, my dad started laughing at how hard it was for Holly to fill out the form. He turned to her and said, "You don’t have to be honest about everything."

But she does, and I love her for that, and she continues to teach me a huge lesson. She teaches me that first, and foremost, my dad is just like me and so Boston has no hope, because, my dad got it from my grandfather. And second, the truth never lets someone down, which I think is the main point. The truth just shows them that you love them no matter what.

I am sure that Boston and I will battle this addiction, but at least we have a beautiful antidote to help us in our affliction. And that, my friends, is totally true.

This all started April 13, 1973...

This year, my family decided to get together for a reunion. I thought it was an excellent idea and I was totally excited about going. I even asked for the time off, roughly five months in advance, so that when everyone at work pretended to have NO idea about me needing time off, I would have proof.

When we go to the resort, it was very nice. The rooms were nice, the people were nice, the pool was heated and the temperature was perfect. 84 degrees in June, when I am used to summer in Vegas, fabulous. What was also fun was that everyone was to plan one day, for the entire group. I think there was 30 or so, but who’s counting. 15 grand kids. I don’t know, but we have a big group.

At one of the events, Holly turned to my dad and said, “Look what you created. All of these people are here because of you.” This was no slight to my Mom, as my Dad’s skills at having babies only go so far. There are biological issues that complicate trying to have a baby without a woman.

It made me think and made me proud to be a member of this family. And it made me excited to see what is to come in the future, when I am older and wiser and sitting at a park with my 5 kids, and their 30 kids…or whatever, like I said, who’s counting.

Fam reunion...Thanks Heather, Angie...

This reminds me of growing up...

Born to text...

I love to watch my wife text. Yes. Text. OK, it is not really the texting that I love; it’s the window into her soul that displays itself when she texts. You see, I can tell you, with 99.9 percent certainty, what my wife is thinking at any moment in time. She is an open book; her facial expressions and body language always give her away.

Because of this, I love to see her react to things. Think through things. Laugh about things. She has such clarity to her. It fills me with joy to watch life happen to her. She rarely surprises me. Almost never. And, above everything, I love to see her put a humorous spin on things.

There is a certain light that sparkles in her eyes when she gets and sends texts. Case in point, we were driving nights ago, she had my phone and her phone, texting as fast as she could on both as I was speeding down the freeway. We were not sure what we were going to do, so she was texting to firm up our plans.

Time and time again, she would say to me, "What if I said this?" And I would laugh. Or "What if I said this?" and I would laugh harder. She has such a great outlook on life, that I love to see it on display. It is a simple pleasure to watch her think through what she is going to write and how she is going to respond. I love to see her interact with individuals and love to see what she is going to do, say or come up with. It’s fun to watch her do what she likes to do, without the pressures of kids, jobs, family, etc.

With this being said, it is a tad bit painful when my text suggestions are rejected. I consider myself somewhat polished and believe that I always offer up very funny responses, only to be given a look of, “I am not going to say that. That is ridiculous.”

For us, texting helps us have conversations that we could never have otherwise. Like when we took out entire family, plus nanny and mom to dinner for London’s birthday. It was a mad house. Waitresses dropping dishes, drinks, bread. Kids screaming. I pulled out my phone and I simply asked, how did we get ourselves into this? Especially when they handed me the bill. As a side note, that is how you know you are a grown up, when you look around the table at dinner and realize that there is no one else who could pay for this bill.

The other time, we were in a group of 50 people, and sat right next to each other and texted for an hour. People were like, who are you guys texting and we were like, ahh..., each other. But it gave us the opportunity to share an intimate moment, in the middle of a huge group. It was so much fun.

So, if you have not done it yet, send Holly a text. She’ll love you for it, forever.

Right before I feel down the mt...

Let's get together and fall off a bike...

Kidamwe...

I do...

Who wants to go summer camp? ME! As I leave my kids each day, I wish I could steal them and go away for three months of summer camp. I want to sit next to them and play the worse/worse game, where they give you two horrible options, but you have to choose the best one for you. Like, would you rather eat your toe nails or a rat?

I want to stay up late and tell stories and hide a flashlight so we can make shadows on the wall. I want to eat a ton of candy with them and then throw up, and laugh about it later. I want to lie in the grass, under the sun, and not worry about anything. I want to help them throw water balloons at the camp director and make a trap under his bed, so that when he lies down at night, a huge bucket of goo falls on his head

I want to build a fire and roast marshmallows with them and cry when we drop them into the fire or accidentally sit on a roasting stick. But most importantly, I want to spend days and days with them, without interruption, without deadlines and without stress. I want a summer camp for them and for me.

Our Favorite Yoga Teacher…

Peace.

My name is Dray Gardner. I was turned on to Bikram Yoga two years ago due to lower back issues, sciatic nerve issues, and basically dead legs every three months of my life. Wrestling was my first sport, followed by Football, Jui Jitsu and any other activity that basically involved contact. I went to a chiropractor, Dr. Chris Paulbick, who after adjusting me and doing what good he could to my beaten up body from years of contact sports, told me to stretch.

I walked into a Bikram Yoga studio of Las Vegas on Tropicana and Rainbow, in the middle of a 30-day challenge (30 classes in 30 days). Within a week or two, I decided to step it up to the 60-day challenge, which I completed on my first attempt. But after my first 90-minute struggle, it became apparent to me that everything outside of this yoga door became easy. It takes a different person to look at themselves (your one and only true teacher) for 90 minutes to appreciate all that you see.

Taking my first class, of what I thought was simply stretching in a hot box, I soon discovered that yoga took me, my mind and my body to places I have never been before: with balance, discipline, focus, determination, strength, flexibility, meditation and peace of mind. I really became sold on Bikram when I learned that every muscle, tendon, joint, internal organ & body system down to the cellular level gets worked in the 90 minute, open-eyed, moving meditation. I soon gave up many of my other physical activities for Bikram Yoga. My love for Yoga (the union of the mind, body and spirit) became my mistress.

That being said, with the understanding, encouragement, support and sacrifices of my family, I was able to attend teacher training. It became quite apparent to them as well as myself that I needed to share the multiple benefits I received. With all I gained through the struggle, the peace, the advancement, the breath, the union – Bikram Yoga truly became my life’s passion. Now my goal in life is to reach down to bring someone else up, reach out to bring someone else in, and reach back to pull someone else forward. If you want to change the world, change yourself. BE the change that you seek in the world.

I graduated from training in November of 2007. After 99 classes in 9 weeks, I am now here doing what I can for you, the people. I enthusiastically welcome you to Bikram Yoga and I look forward to witnessing your struggle, advancement, strength, and ultimate transformation. The divine spirit in me acknowledges and connects with the divine spirit in you.

Let no one steal your peace.

Namaste.

TMI...

On rare occasions, maybe three to four times a week, Holly takes the time to pull me aside and give me a status check. This usually involves a bewildered question, followed by an exclamation point. Something like, “You did what?” DUDE! If you haven’t guessed, the dude is the exclamation point. Then, being the unconditional support that she is, she often follows the exclamation point with a follow-up question, “Are you sure?”

Like when I wanted to cash my entire check and play craps, because I was sure we would win, like $50,000. Or when I asked her if we could let Boston drive, so we could sit in the back seat together and cuddle. And she was totally there for me when I tried to get up on stage at a Sugar Ray concert and sing back up.

As you can see, she has plenty of experience dealing with me. Which brings me to the exact conversation we had this morning when I told her I was going to write this entry. You see, I was standing in our salon getting manscaped. I'm sure you can figure out the rest from here.

I was in a unique position, having some type of Brazilian wax performed, when I thought, I sure hope my kids don’t walk in and see this. However, at that exact instant, as if prompted by fate, each of my children simultaneously walked into the room, only to say (and hide their eyes), “DAD, what are you doing?” Holly laughed and laughed; I feared moving, as that wax is hot, hot, hot, hot, hot.

But this is really nothing new. I am totally a Metrosexual. And Metrosexual’s manscape. In fact, men now outspend women on lotions and body gels, something that has continued to increase as this Metrosexual movement flourishes (kind of like Valentine’s Day. Everyone says we should buy something, so let’s buy something.).

I was a Metrosexual long before the term came into vogue. I have always been a Metrosexual. When I was in junior high, I would plan which outfits I would wear a week in advance, and coordinate those outfits on the days I would see specific girls in specific classes. Yes. Genius. I know.

Long before the phrase Metrosexual was termed, people used to call men who cared about appearance, style and sophistication - Renaissance Men. These were strong individuals who wore tuxedos to parties; suits to work and dress coats to the country club. James Bond type men who loved to entertain and made it look effortless.

Like these men of old, I love to entertain. I love to have people over to my house, take them to a restaurant or participate in an outstanding dinner party. I love to get ready for the event. Match my clothes to the mood of the evening. For me, the best part about entertaining, is watching Holly get ready. I love to sit and watch her apply numerous lotions, glitter and make-up. Then, I love to dress her. I love to pick out her outfits and match our clothes together.

But this adoration is always returned a hundred fold, as anyone who knows me, knows that the real Metrosexual is Holly. She is the one who styles my hair every morning, applies the self tanners and trims my ear hair. But her care and dedication toward my appearance enables me to mask myself as the leader of the Metrosexual pack. In fact, whenever she is out of town, I sit in our salon and wonder how I’m going to pull this all together. The answer, I can’t. But I’m learning and Holly is taking fewer vacations without me.

However, when you take away all the exterior concerns, I believe the true definition of a renaissance man (or Metrosexual) is a man who is centrally focused on bettering himself and those around him through an acute self awareness of him as a whole.

A true level of self awareness is key to success and, more importantly, change. Without it, we lack the fortitude to progress. And while a true sense of self awareness can be difficult for us all to grasp, especially when you are not always 100 percent perfect, it ensures that you have the tools to better yourself. It enables you to work on overcoming anything in your life that is less than flattering and should be changed.

And when we can truly look at our flaws, and love ourselves unconditionally, we succeed. More importantly, when those that love us most, and care about us most, see our flaws and help us overcome them, our life becomes more fulfilling. And having a more fulfilling life is the mantra of Metrosexuals everywhere.

A coincidence, I think not…

Not one to toot my own horn (toot, toot, toot) all the time, I debated whether or not to share the following story. I had many options. I could have crafted this account to make it seem like Holly was writing it; I could have not taken the time to write it down at all or I could have just moved on with my life and pretended that this never happened and spare myself of the indignity that is sure to come when people compare the results of the article.

However, with that being said, I decided to push on and worry about the ridicule later. Take the instance where I came up with the truly brilliant idea of setting up a fake email from Monty Magelby, Holly’s old pre-mission boyfriend. I did not weigh the costs and rewards of what she might think (I probably should have) I simply pressed ahead and lived life to the fullest.

By the way, creating a fake email from someone is totally easy. Just go to Yahoo, choose an email address that seems like it is from another person and send it over. It is hilarious.

I did a bang up job on the email. It was a thing of beauty. It took me most of the afternoon to craft. OK, it really took about six minutes. After sending the email, I anxiously sat by Holly’s phone as it buzzed and awaited the moment when she would walk over, grab it casually and read this unexpected communication. As the moment arrived, I was not disappointed. Holly grabbed her phone, read through the email and laughed so hard a little pee came out. OK. I’m lying. It was a lot. We had to buy her new pants, totally ruined some really expensive pants.

But before we get too far off topic, let's get back to the story that brings us here today. So, as I was saying before I became distracted, Holly’s client walked into our house to get her hair cut. Sydney, the socialite in training that she is, walked over to her and said hello. She then reappeared with a recent GQ magazine. The magazine had a picture of Brad Pitt pictured on the front cover.

Being the good girl that I have come to appreciate, she walked right up to Holly’s client and said, “This is my Daddy.” Holly’s client, being boorish, rude and insensitive, said, “Yes, you are right. He is a Daddy. He has like, what 14 kids, or something.” This left Sydney perplexed and she said again, with emphasis, “No, this is my Daddy. This is a picture of my Daddy right here.”

This blind love and dedication to her father should immediately show you why I have such a fond place in my heart for Sydney. This is why I allow her to sleep at the foot of my bed every night and why I almost always immediately buy her candy whenever she asks for it, no matter what we are doing.

And for proof that this blog is not simply the ramblings of an incoherent man, the photo above is of Shiloah, Brad’s daughter which he had with Angelina. I know, I know - I wish I did not know that as well. But, as anyone can see, she is a dead ringer for Sydney. I mean, they could really be twins.

And while this is intriguing, it really could only mean one of two things. First, Brad and I, in fact, look so very similar, that we have been able to father girls who look like twins or, and more disconcerting, there may be something I should ask Holly about her relationship with one famous movie star. The very same movie star who was filming Ocean’s 12 in Las Vegas roughly 4 years ago.

On second thought, I’d better hurry and check if Brad.Pitt65@yahoo.com is available.

Thanks, Dad!

Matt saved the day for us at the High School Musical event. We were there at 1:55 pm, for a 2 pm start, when they said there were no more tickets. I called Matt and he made the call and got us more tickets. LOVE him for that.

High School Musical, On Tour

Only one more day until Holly, Boston, Brooklyn, London and Sydney see High School Musical, On Tour, live at the Planet Hollywood Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas. Having a VIP Dad is the best part of living in Las Vegas, for sure!

Straight A's!! We are so proud of you!

London's Award ceremony today left her very rich in awards. School is definitely her sport! She received an award in almost every category: Perfect Speller, Super Scientist, Writing, 2 awards in Reading, Social Studies, Math, Citizenship and Straight A's Honor Roll!! We love you London, you ROCK!

Pick an award...and London got it!!

London says while you look at the pictures about her you have to click on her favorite song, Taylor Swift - Our Song.

London and Cali

Sydney

Night swimming!

Never to busy to help a child...

Teaching, teaching, teaching. It seems like I am always taking the time to teach my children tools that will help them understand the necessity of helping out as a member of the family. That is my goal. That is my mantra. No lesson is too small to skip over or too great to suspend what I am doing and take a teaching timeout to instruct my children in life’s lessons.

It was one such beautiful morning when I was trying to impress upon these young minds the benefit of cleaning. I was helping my children clean the house and simultaneously trying my best to offer up a profound lesson that would sink in and make a powerful impression on their young minds. For cleanliness is next to godliness.

As my mind was racing to find the right teaching tool or opportunity, I stumbled across a half eaten apple core and three or four candy wrappers. In addition to this, I found some make-up and some toilet paper lying in the middle of the floor. Next to these used products was a consumed juice box and 15 or so gum wrappers that were haphazardly thrown on the floor.

As any good parent would do when presented with such a wonderful teaching opportunity, I FREAKED out. I calmly (read: yelled at the top of my lungs) asked each and every one of my children to come down into the living room where I presented my findings to them. I asked them why they were not able to determine the difference between the front room, a place where we try to promote a nice, clean and relaxing environment and the garbage, a stinky place where we throw away our used refuge.

However, I was disappointed with the response I received and decided it was time to take the lesson to the next level. The goal of my lesson was to teach them (me, always teaching and inspiring, like Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire) that there were places for some things and not for others and that all our belongings have a place.

As my mind wondered what would help teach this lesson, I grabbed onto something so clear and powerful it had to be used. It was at precisely that moment that I lowered my pants and started to relieve myself in the front room – now keep in mind, I did not really relieve myself in the front room, I mean that is just sick, I just pretended to do it.

Now it was their turn to FREAK out. They were crying. “Daddy, don’t do it,” echoed from their mouths as they feared the desecration of the front room. But I had to push it. I bellowed in my loudest voice, “Boston, run to the top of the stairs and fetch me some toilet paper, I am going to need it.” More moans and crying followed my command, as my confused son was stuck somewhere between following my orders and trying to talk enough sense into me that I would finally pull up pants.

After what seemed like an eternity, I pulled up my pants sat down, and said, “Now, does anyone have any doubt that there is a separate and distinct place for everything?”

And while they were all too emotionally scared to speak, I felt like a true lesson had been learned.

I love my Daddy!

3rd place Dean Allen Spelling Bee!

"I love you Mom!" Brooklyn always says!

Watch out middle school, here I come!

The other day we found a video tape of Christmas years ago. We watched with such amazement at the changes we have seen in our kids. They have grown, but the more things change, the more they stay the same. Boston, on the tape is full of energy, spunk and fire. He knew exactly what he wanted back then and how he was going to get it. Nothing has really changed. He is sill so focused on what he loves and is always plotting on how he can get it.

I loved watching him to try to manipulate me back then, on tape, and match that against what he is still trying to do today. I can’t imagine where he gets that from. He has a great skill at looking at a situation and trying to determine how he can best get what he wants. It really is fun to watch.

He has a load of skills, which include a deep love and passion for reading, writing and dreaming up the next coolest thing. I’m hoping he has a Harry Potter idea in his beautiful brain, and it makes an early retirement a sure thing for his dear old Dad.

But even more impressive than his creativity, is his love for his friends and his sisters. He takes very good care of them and watches out for them like a hawk. He also loves his grandparents and has such a special place in his heart for his Papa Jack. When they are together, they are kindred spirits, with Boston asking question after question to the wise story teller and answer after answer coming back to him in parable form. It is very entertaining to watch.

It will be fun to watch as he grows and develops in middle school and beyond. Both Holly and I love him so much, it is hard to truly express in writing, but I know he feels that love in his big, beautiful brain.

Lucky Number 5

Red Bull Gives You Wings & Kids...

Who ever said that doctors don't lie to you is, well, lying. Case in point, Holly's doctor said that if she just put in a tiny, little IUD, she would not have to worry about getting pregnant ever again. Well, she lied. She must not have known about it, or at least did not check into the effect that large consumptions of Red Bull have on a person's ability to produce rapidly swimming sperm with wings. It should be clear. I mean, she has seen the commercials, right? But alas, she must not have believed them, because sure enough, we found ourselves with a pregnant Holly, and I was left holding the Red Bull can.

When we told the doctor of Holly's condition, she checked the IUD and found out, to her surprise, that it was placed perfectly and should have been at least 100 percent effective. Or whatever she said about percentages and sperm and sex.

But her lack of knowledge about Red Bull was our gain, as we could never be happier than when we get to spend time with our angel. WE LOVE HER. She makes our lives full and complete. We could never have been as happy as we are now. She is our everything. And who do we have to thank, a bold and efficient company from Austria that dared to create a drink that renders all birth control ineffective. For that, we will love you forever, Red Bull.

Not fitting in...

So, is it just me, or have they really shrunk those benches on the side of the chapel, where you sit in church? Holly and I showed up somewhere between 9:05 and 9:15, however, with all the benches in the middle taken, we were forced to sit on the side. It quickly became apparent that this bench situation would not work any longer. We had NO room. It is at times like these when I realize that I am the head of a large family. Five kids, two parents and one bulldog on the way, which I wished I had now, but I do not.

This is even after we have all totally slimmed down from hot yoga.

Anyone could see that we were having a hard time fitting in. I had Brooklyn and Sydney on my lap; Holly held Cali and Boston and London sat next to each other, passionately discussing which one would have first crack at the paper I brought from them to draw on. After 60 minutes or so, Holly took Cali out and I started sending her one kid right after another to join her in the foyer. By the time we were singing the last hymn, I was lounging with an entire bench to myself. But as I got up to leave, I found three of my five kids lying on the ground making a road block so that people trying to move to class could not pass. Not a road block because they were in the way, but a road block where they were trying to get people to pay to cross.

You have to make up the money somewhere, and I try to teach my kids how to work every angle.

Anyway, our trouble fitting in reminded me of a situation three months ago while we were at the beach in California for my birthday (Yeah, we drove to Newport Beach for the day. That was before gas hit $4.23 a gallon). I wanted to document our happiness and attempted to capture the entire family in one shot on my camera phone. However, after much pushing and shoving, I found it much too hard to get everyone in the shot. This of course, was made all the more difficult by the fact that an unnamed nanny was involved, something we have done away with since then and don’t talk about now. After much effort, we were able to squeeze 7 people into the shot, which made me happy inside, while simultaneously forcing me to calculate the odds of an early retirement.

But benches and photos are not the only things that make it hard for us to fit in. For some reason, we also don’t seem fit into my car. Holly would say that this is something that was carefully considered before it was purchased. In fact, if I remember closely, this is exactly how the conversation went at the dealership. Me: “This should be the perfect automobile for our family. Holly: “This only sits four, how are we all going to fit in this car?" Me to the sales person: “Interesting. We’ll take it.”

But with all of the trouble we go through to fit in, we have recently made the decision to stand out. We’ve stopped worrying if we are too loud while we are out to eat; if we throw too many balls over the fence into our neighbor’s yard / pool (this guy gets so mad at us and we all just sit there looking at him over the fence, like, ‘Ah, Dude, can you hurry, we’re trying to play a game here.') or if we happen to laugh so loud that we get shushed by other sitting in back of us at church (come on, don’t shush me, I’m like 30. Get a life. Make some noise).

I am proud of my big family. There are a lot of us. We are many in number and we are happy. And yes, from time to time, we laugh too much; we almost always yell too much and I am always trying to get us to play too much. We love life, but more importantly, we love spending time together.

The more time we spend together, the more fun we seem to have and the more time we get to teach our children. I spent last Sunday teaching my son and daughters how to bar-b-q. Each one took great pride in turning their respective steaks (the only true way to make sure a steak is cooked to perfection) and making sure it was done with pure Red Flame zeal.

Once the steaks were ready, Boston grabbed the plate, proudly displayed them as he walked in the house and unceremoniously dropped them all on the floor. “No matter, I said, I once fed a lady a steak right out of the garbage on a catering job and she did not die (at least I have never heard that she died and I don’t have a warrant out for my arrest, at least not for that).” While that stoic proclamation did not make him feel better; understanding that he was not the first person to drop something on the floor did.

So, are we loud? Yes. Do we like space? Yes. Do we say what is on our minds? Ahh, yeah. But we are a happy family, full of people that know they have BIG support for whatever BIG dreams they want to accomplish….and that is the kind of big that can’t be measured by a church bench.