My Cousin Todd and Anne Frank

My cousin Todd has always been an old soul and one of the kindest souls and people you will meet. He was my favorite person in the world when I was little and he remains such and I loved hanging out with him and learning so much from him. I learned all about the Halloween movies (1 through 5), I learned about Freddy Kruger, I learned about The Beatles, The Doors, Janis Joplin, Pink Floyd, The Grateful Dead, and all things related to art. His respect for all living things, human and animal, was noticed by my small impressive mind.

I’ll never forget thinking how amazingly grown up he was when I saw him reading The Diary of Anne Frank and I remember him telling me about the book. Walking me through her families ordeal and persecution. I remember not understanding the gravity of that era at the time, but I remember the way her diary ended and I’ve always held on to those words.

If you’re not familiar with Anne Frank, please take time to research who she was (beyond the lovely Justin Bieber visit to her house years ago). In a nutshell, this was a young Jewish girl who was forced to hide, with her family, in Amsterdam after escaping Nazi-controlled Germany. Anne and her family hunkered down in rooms that were hidden behind bookshelves in the building where her father worked. The family was eventually betrayed and split up and taken to concentration camps after the Nazis had taken control of the Netherlands. Anne died in a concentration camp in 1945. Her diary was found back in Amsterdam and documents her life between 1942 and August of 1944—when she was taken to her eventual death.

In her diary, she said “there is an urge and rage in people to destroy, to kill, to murder, and until all mankind, without exception, undergoes a great change, wars will be waged, everything that has been built up, cultivated and grown, will be destroyed and disfigured, after which mankind will have to begin all over again.”

I, like millions of other people, have spent the last few days watching the incredibly disturbing videos from Baton Rouge and Minneapolis. I don’t understand the incidents. I don’t understand these deaths. I’m sickened by these videos and these situations. I feel for the families who lost two fathers, friends, brothers, uncles, husbands, boyfriends, sons.

Would these incidents have happened with white passengers or suspects involved? I have no idea. Sadly, probably not. I am not blind enough to not recognize a problem with law enforcement on some level. I am not ignorant enough to watch these two videos and some of the videos from the last year and not feel that something is incredibly off with the way these situations are handled.

I, like millions of other people, have spent tonight reading and watching videos from the sniper-style assassination deaths of four police officers and the injuries of 7 other police officers in Dallas. I don’t understand how a peaceful protest turns into a war zone. I don’t understand the incidents. I’m sickened by the videos. I feel for the families who lost fathers, friends, brothers, uncles, husbands, boyfriends, sons.

And I find myself reverting back to Todd’s room in Northern California. Listening to him talk about peace. Wanting to understand what a hippie really was, but loving that he seemed to fit the mold. And I wonder, did Anne Frank see our time?

Have we undergone a great change? Has everything that has been built, cultivated, and grown been disfigured and destroyed now? Will we, as mankind, have to begin all over again? Are we at that point? Are we so broken that the only fix is to start over?

Generalizations will always drive me up a wall. Not all black people are suspects and, obviously, shouldn’t be treated as such right off the bat. Not all police officers are murderous, power hungry racists and shouldn’t be treated as such right from the start. Even more dangerous than any gun, knife, punch, kick, or bomb are the generalizations that we as humans throw on other brothers and sisters in our mankind family. Anne was right. There is an urge to kill. To destroy. And to murder. And I would add that as a response to these frightening and life-altering events, there is an urge to generalize. And that scares me more than any physical threat that exists.

I wish I was as strong as Anne Frank. I wish I had half as much courage and hope that she had to her last day on this earth in one of the most heinous and awful times in history. To think that Anne Frank, through all that she experienced in her short life, uttered these profound words:

“It’s really a wonder that I haven’t dropped all my ideals, because they seem so absurd and impossible to carry out. Yet I keep them, because in spite of everything I still believe that people are really good at heart.”

A 16-year-old girl wrote those profound words at a time when her family was suffering some of the worst persecution a group of people have had to endure. A 16-year-old girl who should have been enjoying whatever kids were doing in the 1940s, who had to be scared, who had to be distraught, chose to keep her ideals because she still believed in mankind. She still believed that people are good at heart.

I want to believe that. I want to feel that way. And our world makes it so incredibly difficult to. I believe Todd feels that. I believe Anne feels that still and would stand by her words.

Tonight, our country feels so divided. Which, sadly, doesn’t feel much different than the last little while. And maybe before we talk about this race killed that race or this race pulled a gun on that race. We talk about all the races involved experiencing the exact same thing tonight as each other—an empty side of the bed, an empty bedroom, a void in their hearts, and a family member to say goodbye to. And that hurts. And maybe our country can take that hurt that we all feel and use it to unify because people are really good at heart. Maybe we can take that hurt and avoid completely having to start over as mankind.

Like any dad, I want to be the hero to my daughters. Of course! But tonight, I’m committed to helping my daughters discover admiration for real heroes like Anne Frank. I want my daughters to have the Anne Frank approach to humanity. And the Todd approach to life. They’re going to grow up in a world that has terrible things happening far too often by people. And I want them to believe, deep in their hearts and souls, that in spite of everything they see and hear and experience, people are really good at heart.  

Now. Don’t let me down, people.

Cartwheels and Somersaults

Dear Etta and Pearl

Something got to me tonight. I tried to sing it away. I tried to watch it away on old TV sitcom reruns. I tried to social media it away. And I tried to just simply bury it. But as I sat there in tears, I realized it wasn't going away and it's never going to go away.

Fear. Daddy got scared.

You two are perfect in every way. There isn't anything about you that isn't cherubic. I would literally give my breath, blood, and pulse for your sweet little faces. Tonight I reflected on what a journey it was to even have you in our lives. It wasn't easy. It was full of a lot of heartache, deeply sad times, frightening times, uncertain times, and even more heartache.  Maybe you even witnessed some of it from afar.

But all of that was worth it when phrases like "miscarriage" or "dilation and curettage" or "it didn't work" were finally traded in for phrases like "say hello to your beautiful, healthy daughter" and "she's perfect" and "I love you daddy."

And now, four years after the fact, you, Etta Marae, have more zest for life than just about anyone I've ever met. You crave adventure. You long for activity. You sing. You dance. You think you can do a cartwheel. And you make me laugh. Pearl Kay, my Little One, you are full of personality and basically love everything Etta loves. You love deep. You're compassionate. You're goofy. You think you can do a somersault.  And you love your daddy.

And as I thought about you both, that feeling of fear crept in. It seems like every morning I wake up to something in this world that scares me. It's sad and alarming to me, sure. But it scares me for what it means for you two. I don't know the answers. I'm sorry. I wish I did. I don't have the magic potion or secret sauce that will make the world safer and less fearful. But I do have a few requests that I would ask of you so that you can make YOUR world better and as a result, hopefully impact the rest of the world.

• First and foremost, Never stop believing you can do a cartwheel or a somersault. Whatever the cartwheel or somersault at that point of your life is, always believe in yourself. Fight those who will inevitably tell you that you can't do a cartwheel or somersault.  Fight for women. Know that you can do anything any boy can do. Always believe in yourself. 
• Love everyone regardless of race, color, religion, orientation or gender. Recognize that no one is labeled by anything other than a child and creation of God. Respect people. Care for people. Love people. Nothing in this world can change or improve without respect for everyone. Form your own educated opinions and values while still fighting and defending other's rights to the very same. 
• Process and grow. I wouldn't ask to shield you from the seeing the world's violence, hate, sadness, and overall tendency towards un-unification. I know you can't be shielded from these atrocities. You will someday wake up to and have to comprehend a theatre shooting notification. News of a nightclub shooting. A terrorist attack. A mass bombing. A school shooting. A robbery. You will undoubtedly watch politicians use each sad event as speaking points. Please process these things. Find the good in what people say. Find the helpers. Please  grow from these things. Find a desire to change the world from these moments. Stay so very far away from the ugly emotion of hate that has filled our streets, homes, schools, and even political worlds. 
• Be safe.  Create a world where you run around your yard without the fear of someone taking you. Play at the park without looking over their shoulders. Help create a world where schools spend more time playing, learning, exploring, and adventuring and less time on  lockdown drills and practice being quiet while hiding in the classroom. 
• Love yourselves in a world full of people who feel so much hate towards other people because they don't love themselves. Be proud of yourselves.  Never lose that proud look and smile after accomplishments. 
• Realize who you are. See the miracle of yourselves. 

 Never, not once, close your eyes at night or open your eyes in the morning ever wondering if your daddy loves you. I will make that clear. I'll trade yelling for nurturing tones. I'll trade timeouts for hugs. I'll trade threats for lessons.

Be better than me. Don't let this world make you jaded. Avoid cynicism at all costs. Don't ever stop looking for the good. Don't ever stop believing in people. In humanity. Don't ever stop believing in yourself--and in your cartwheels and somersaults.

I love you.

Daddy

The Night Swiper Made Me Cry

Tonight, Swiper made me cry.

To say that this last week has been an emotional one would be a gross understatement--and I'm not even the one who's had to endure what some have had to endure.

I've tried my hardest to fight the emotions. I've tried my hardest to keep my tears at bay. My eyes have been swollen from the fight with my tears. My head has ached from the fight with my tears.

But tonight, when no one else was around, Swiper made me cry.

If you aren't familiar with Swiper, then you've never watched Dora and I count you one of the unlucky ones. Swiper is Dora's nemesis. He's a sly fox who is constantly stealing and swiping everyone's everything. Every episode, Swiper reeks havoc as he swipes something of value, which in turn leads Dora, Boots, and the gang on a wild adventure to retrieve the article or object that Swiper has swiped.

However, the particular episode that Etta, Pearl, and I watched tonight was the Christmas episode. Basically, Santa Claus comes to visit the gang, he informs Swiper that he is indeed on the naughty list due to his relentless swiping. Swiper, very saddened by the news, asks Santa if there is anything he can do to be taken off the naughty list. Santa informs Swiper that if he finds the true meaning of Christmas, he can be taken off the naughty list and added to the desirable nice list.

The episode follows Swiper and Dora around as he attempts to get the full meaning of Christmas. He thinks he's accomplished it, but alas, at the end of the episode, Swiper is still on the naughty list. But, despite that fact, he realizes that he hasn't gotten Dora a present for Christmas. Quickly, he retrieves a stuffed rabbit from his childhood, takes it to Dora and tells her Merry Christmas and gives her the gift. At that point, he is taken from the naughty list to the nice list. At that point, he's realized the true meaning of Christmas.

At that point. I started crying.

At that point, I realized that Christmas is less than three weeks away, and there's a very good friend of mine who will be waking up this Christmas morning without one of his twin two year old boys--thanks to what is perhaps the most frustrating cause of death ever, SIDS.

At that point, I realized that what I'm feeling about their situation is a fraction, a minute fraction, of what I imagine they are feeling--and that destroys my insides.

At that point, I realized that while one very good friend of mine lost his son five days ago and will be without him on Christmas, another very good friend of mine, and brother-in-law of mine, lost his dad the same day and will be without him on Christmas.

At that point, I realized that one of my childhood best friends, who lost his little 15-month old girl just a couple months ago, will wake up Christmas morning sans an important member of his family and will have just the memories of her to keep him and his family warm.

At that point, I realized that Annie's cousin's daughter,  a strong, courageous, brave, powerful little four year old girl was celebrated this afternoon at a benefit carnival for her battle with Leukemia and I was amazed as I watched hers and her families optimism and commitment to their beliefs.

At that point, I recalled the a friend of mine at this carnival with no ties to the little girl with Leukemia or her family, other than the fact that he had lost his four year old son four years ago to brain cancer and he, his wonderful wife, and their beautiful daughter were there solely to support this random family they don't know.

At that point, I recalled a friend of mine who lost his little girl a couple years ago at just 15 days old and how emotional he was recounting the story and how strong he was and full of ability to grasp things well beyond this existence.

At that point, I remembered a close friend who uprooted his family to Singapore from Utah for work only to have his teenage daughter ambushed by cancer, causing his family to be separated for months leading up to Christmas as she undergoes treatment in America while he, somehow, musters up the strength to continue providing.

I don't know why these things happen to people. And I don't know how they are so strong. I don't know how they endure. I don't know how they function. But it amazes me that they do.

It amazes me that they can be so strong. That they can be so optimistic--even when they think they aren't.

Tomorrow is the viewing of that little two year old boy, and I know I'll be one of many asking the question "why?"

But along with these questions of "why", I've had so many other questions of "why don't I" that I plan to ask myself and that I've asked myself over and over again for the last week. I've always tried hard to be the best dad I can be, but I know there is more I can do. I know I can be better.

"Why don't I love more?"

"Why don't I avoid being so frustrated with Etta when she throws a tantrum?"

"Why don't I give Pearl a break when she's not sleeping well?"

"Why don't I enjoy the moments I can just sit there and observe my girls playing? Laughing? Smiling?"

"Why don't I put the phone down for two seconds?"

"Why don't I sneak into their rooms even more often and listen to them breathe? Watch them sleep? Run my fingers through their hair? Kiss their foreheads?"

"Why don't I say yes to Etta asking me to color or play with play dough or watch Dora with her?"

"Why don't I volunteer to feed Pear more often?"

"Why don't I sit there, smile, take every single moment with my girls in, take nothing for granted, and laugh, smile, and get teary eyes at every single cute thing they do? At every single time they say daddy or they laugh or they smile or they cry or they yell or they walk, roll over, scoot, eat, drink, jump or throw a tantrum?"

I've been so impressed with my friend, Jeff, who lost his two year old son. I've been impressed with everything he's posted on his social media outlets. With everything he's told me in person or through texts.

He's a dad that doesn't need to ask himself the why don't I questions, because he does all that. It's obvious he does all that. It's obvious that he'd never put himself in a position where he regretted what he said or how he acted to his children. It's obvious that his children love him.

It's obvious that he believes in something so much more than just this mortal existence.

It's obvious that he is an inspiration with his strength. And I'm forever grateful for his example and I hope to be more like him as a dad and as a man.

I know he'll see his son again. I believe there's more to life than just suffering and not understanding. I believe that all my friends who are having to endure these moments are strong enough to endure them.

I'm inspired by their commitment to their beliefs. And I share those beliefs.

I know they all hurt.

Normally, I'm rooting against Swiper. But, I'd give anything for him to be able to swipe away the pain these families hold. And if he'd swipe away their pain, I'd make sure Dora and the gang never, ever tried to find it again.

And while Swiper learned the true meaning of Christmas tonight, I'm hoping all these families, can call upon an even deeper meaning of Christmas than making the transition from the naughty list to the nice list. I'm hoping they can call upon THE meaning for Christmas.

Because, I believe the true meaning of Christmas, is one that can swipe away that pain. He's one that can bring the peace they need.

And while that pain may not be swiped away by this Christmas or next Christmas or 50 Christmases from now, someday, it will. It really will.

And that has lasting implications no sneaky fox could ever provide.

You Should See The View From Here

The human brain constantly amazes me.

In a split second, we are capable of having long, complex moments of thought run through our minds. We are able to conjure up hours, days, weeks, months, years of emotions in just a single thought.

For me, that happened last Thursday as I laid between my couch and my coffee table and Etta laid on the other side smiling at me between the legs of the table.

For anyone in Utah, Thursday afternoon had you glued to your news outlets for information about the shooting spree that spanned 50 miles through Utah County--culminating in the shooting of two officers...including one fatally--Sgt. Corey Wride.

The story didn't really hit me until I found myself laying there staring into the blue eyes of my beautiful daughter and watching her laugh at a game of peek-a-boo that she was playing with me under and then above the coffee table.

It didn't really hit me until that moment, when I realized that Sgt. Wride had five children and eight grandchildren, and that none of them would have him that night for a game of peek-a-boo. For dinner. For a story. For a hug. Or for just a smile.

And as Etta laughed, rolled over, ran away and hid, ran back and looked under the coffee table. I cried. She didn't know I cried, but I did. In fact, I'm sure she wasn't aware that I was thinking anything other than how I was going to make her laugh next. But what I hope she knows in her own way right now is how grateful I am for every single second I get to spend with her.

What I hope she understands is that I promise to never take a single laugh. Smile. Hug. Kiss. High five. Rocks. Dance move. Step. Jump. Penguin waddle. Bath tub splash. Kitchen set playtime. Story time. Or coffee table peek-a-boo for granted--because there are families, dads, and granddads, moms and grandmas that had those moments taken from them in a split second, while serving other people, no less.

To think that there are men and women in the police force and men and women in the service of our country who are willing to put the loss of those things on the line to protect me and to give me the chance to enjoy those things with my little girls, is mind blowing.

I've been fortunate enough to find myself in situations that have afforded me some incredible views.  Beach side sunrises and sunsets. Mountainous wonders from Alaska to the Tetons. Amazing skylines from Los Angeles to New York, and Calgary to Bogota.

I've taken photos of all of those amazing views. I have them saved on my phone and on my computer because I know I'll forget someday exactly how they all looked and felt.

But nothing I've ever seen has compared to that Thursday evening and the view I had across the coffee table. The view I didn't need a picture of because it will forever be stamped in my feelings. The view I'll never forget.

The perfect view.

Amazing. All that, in a split second of thought.

Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow

I never understood what the classic line from Romeo and Juliet really felt like until recently.

In fact, until recently, I had even thought the line was overplayed and completely cliche.

That is, until Annie and I took Etta to her first week of nursery at our church. You see, at our LDS church, Etta can go to nursery once she reaches 18 months old--which means for the final two hours of church, she's away from us with the volunteer nursery teachers.

But it means more than that. It means she's growing up. It means it's the first time she's leaving me to go on to something different. To go onto a different stage in her life.

It means, I was crushed. It means that, parting was such sweet sorrow. Sweet because she's growing up and she's becoming a little girl and she's embracing the changes so well and she's developing perfectly and she's full of personality and she's full of eagerness and genuine want to be independent. Sorrow because she's my little girl. She is developing towards and embracing a stage where she doesn't necessarily need me around to function.

Sweet sorrow.

Once, a couple of weeks ago,  she caught a glimpse of the toys in the nursery room and each time we've walked by, she's wanted to go in. So, when the day came that we were finally going to open the door, she was as eager as she's been for anything--despite the picture not completely showing that.

We walked into the nursery room together and she ran as fast as her little legs could take her to the plethora of toys that sat against the far wall. Annie approached the nursery teacher and informed her that it was Etta's first week in nursery. The teacher smiled very sweetly. Annie then walked over to where I was sitting across the room, leaning on a table. I told Annie I'd stay for a bit to see how Etta does. Annie let me and she left.

I sat there for five minutes. There were about five other parents in the room with their children. Some were playing, some were crying and sitting next to their parents. Etta, didn't really even notice I was in the room or that Annie had left--she was mesmerized by the toys.

For that five minutes, I tuned out the noise. I tuned out the chaos. I just watched Etta. And I cried. I literally cried.

And during that five minutes, I asked myself "how do dads do it? How do they let their little girls grow up? How do they let their little girls go?"

And I started thinking of dads I know.

How does a dad cope with sending his daughter and her husband off to the East Coast to build a life--nearly 2000 miles away?

How does a dad send his youngest daughter to graduate school? Not her first degree, but her second degree. How does he handle watching that type of growth?

How does a dad sit by and watch his daughter go to San Francisco to work as a nanny for a family there? How does he sleep? How does he cope?

How can a dad handle the emotions of his three little girls now bringing their four little kids over to his house?

What is that keeps a dad watching his child undergo traumatic illness and even death, keep going?

What does a dad feel when he thinks of his once infant daughter halfway through first grade?

How does a dad take his daughter to her first day of school? (This will be me, by the way).

I can't even take my daughter to nursery without shedding tears. Truth be told, I can't even write this blogpost right now at 1am without crying. I was barely able to listen to Etta cry for 30 minutes tonight after I put her to bed before she finally gave up and fell asleep (a huge step for me, I should say).

I used to think I'd wish for a way to see 15, 20, 30 years in the future. Now, I know I'd never wish for that. Ever. Instead, I want each day to be as long as possible. Instead, I want to cherish every single second, minute, hour, day, week, year.

Because, I think I know how the dad's mentioned above do it. They do it because they've spent the prior 4-30 plus years embracing everything. They do it because they've kept a real perspective on their relationship with their children. They do it because they're dads. I hope I can be that tough.

The sweet nursery teacher walked over and interrupted my thoughts and tears. She said a sentence I'll never forget. "You can probably go. She's doing just fine. We know where you'll be and we'll come get you if we need you."

I stood up, hoping Etta would see me about to leave and want to come with me. Instead, she barely turned around. She, instead, shot her attention to a slide that was in the corner. I walked out and realized that there was a peep hole on the door so that the parents could see in to the classroom. I smiled, thinking, this is where I'll see Etta come running to the door that I just walked through to leave.

She didn't. She kept playing. I went and sat down with Annie in the Sunday School class. I lasted about five minutes before making my way to the peep hole. She was playing. She was happy.

I made three more trips to the peep hole in the next hour. I even managed to not go rescue her when I did actually hear her crying (I later learned that food actually came to the rescue of Etta, once again, and she was fine). She lasted the full two hours. Perfectly. She even colored a picture that I've put up on the fridge in the kitchen. I am so proud of that picture. I am so proud of her.

By now, it's public knowledge that little Etta is going to have a sibling. We are super excited! I can't wait to meet this child. I can't wait to watch this new baby grow and develop. I can't wait to sit there in exactly two years from now and cry in a nursery room somewhere while that child runs to the toys, with his/her older sister Etta leading the way and showing them the ropes.

I can't wait to watch Etta teach her brother/sister all about putting cereal down every heating vent in the house and how important that type of work is. Certainly she knows that it's her responsibility to teach her sibling how to properly throw a tantrum, etc.

Mostly, I can't wait for my sense of pride to be doubled. I can't wait for the joy that will come with watching another child grow up.

Because really, it won't be long before "Parting Is Such Sweet Sorrow(S)."

And I think I'm ok with that. (I write through the tears).

I Don't Know. I Hope So.

I don't understand things sometimes. I don't get it.

And I'm scared. There, I said it, I'm afraid. And every time I open a news website or a newspaper, my fear increases dramatically.

It makes me sad to hear about terrorists attacks. It makes me cry to see a four year old girl running through a Kenya mall trying to escape the hoards of gunfire happening behind her.

It literally hurts my heart to see pictures of students covered in blood while they mourn the loss of over 50 of their classmates in a senseless act of violence.  

Will they bounce back in Nigeria and Kenya? I don't know. I hope so.

I don't understand why a Dodgers fan is stabbed to death after a game against the Giants.  Or why a Giants fan was beat to within inches of his death last year and left with brain damage after a game against the Dodgers. 

Will we ever have a sports season where people see it for what it is? I don't know. I hope so.

Why does a guy go on a killing spree at a navy yard?

Will mental illness and disease awareness and treatment become something we fight for as hard as we fight each other over politics?

I don't know. I hope so.

Iran's President takes a phone call from the United States' President. People line the streets to chant "death to America."

Will our two countries ever be friends? I don't know. I hope so.

Don't even get me started on Chicago or Detroit.

School shootings. Kidnappings. Murders. Molestations.

And I'm supposed to let my little Etta out of mine or Annie's sight for two seconds--much less a full school day? I can't even sit on the bench at the mall and let her go around the treehouse, a roundtrip of three seconds, without freaking out--a reaction that usually leads to me on her heels everywhere she goes.

Will I ever feel comfortable with Etta out of my sight for longer than a blink of an eye? I don't know. I hope so.

Then I got to thinking. With all of these terrible things happening across the world, including our own country,  all we want to do is fight about insignificant things. All we want to do is point fingers at other political parties. Other religious beliefs. Other races. Other whatever.

All we do is continue to fuel hatred amongst each other. We just breed it.

Then I think even more.

And  I look in the mirror. Then I wonder if the greatest challenge for Etta is staring me right back in the mirror. Someone should write a song about the man in the mirror.

Am I doing everything I can for Etta? Am I the father she needs, and more importantly deserves?

I don't know. I hope so.

Am I prepared to tell her that bad things sometimes happen to good people? Am I prepared to tell her about a school shooting if, and more likely when, it happens again? Am I prepared with an answer when she asks me why people don't like where she lives or what she or her family believe?

I don't know. I hope so.

When Etta thinks of her daddy, will she think of someone who always showed her just how much he loves her? Will she think of how she makes me smile--a real, genuine, uninhibited smile? Will she realize that the mere mention of her name makes me tear up and any further thought of her makes me full on cry?

I don't know. I hope so.

Will she turn to me as someone who can be there to help her through difficult times? Will she trust me enough to talk to me when she's scared? Nervous? Anxious?

I don't know. I hope so.

The news makes me sad. Yes. But what an amazing opposite effect little Etta has. I hope I am what she needs. I hope she senses right now at just 15 months just how incredibly special she is to me and to her mommy.

Will there come a day when I open a newspaper, and all I see are stories that make me smile? Stories that make me happy? Stories that make me cry Etta tears--happy tears?

I don't know. I hope so.

Gratitude From a Funeral

It seems that gratitude comes in situations and circumstances you don't necessarily expect it to. For me, that has happened quite a bit the last couple of weeks, with regards to little Etta.

I attended a funeral a couple of weeks ago for the sister of one of my really great friends. She has two very adorable, sweet little boys and from the funeral it was very clear just how much she really loved those two little boys and how much her family adores and loves those little guys.

My friend's sister struggled with some things throughout the course of her last days, and, from what was said during the funeral, struggled to combat some of the difficulties that encroached upon her life.

But it was during her mother's comments that I really felt a sense of gratitude. Her mom said that she had spent the last ten years trying every day to get her daughter to change her behavior and to change her life. She mentioned that she was hard on her daughter during those times to change her behavior.

Then, her lovely mother, who I love, said this phrase that really hit home for me: "I know there are a lot of parents out there who react this way as well while raising their children because that's the natural way to react. Well, quit it. Don't do that."

I'm grateful for her frankness and her directness with her piece of advice. She didn't know it, but I've hung onto that and will always hold on to that in my attempts at raising Etta. I'm grateful to this sweet mother for adding a little piece of advice to the parenting advice book that I keep in my mind.

I'm grateful for her willingness to share what she shared with those at the funeral. I'm grateful for her family and how they've come together and reacted in such  difficult time. It's an inspiration to me.

It got me thinking of other things I've noticed since that funeral and there are many things that I am grateful for these days (here are a few):

-I'm grateful for the wind storm in Utah the other day. I'm grateful that while sitting outside with Etta during the storm, she'd rather say close to me than wander around the yard in her usual way. I'm grateful that she'd rather be within an arms length (a very tiny arm) to me than go and look at the flower table. Nothing big happened. Nothing earth shattering happened during that wind storm. I just sat on the porch and she stood next to me enjoying the wind, but not wanting to go too far away from me. I'll always pray for a wind storm every now and then.

-I'm grateful that Etta has the mother she has. Etta is clearly connected at the hip to her mommy and she prefers her mommy over anyone else. I'm grateful that my daughter is being raised by Annie. Annie and Etta have such a different and special bond that is very obvious to me. I enjoy watching them interact. I enjoy watching them argue. I enjoy watching them disagree over small things like ponytails, pig tails, wiping Etta's nose, wiping Etta's face. Bath time etiquette. Bath time hair washing. Eating a dozen chocolate chip cookies. Etta wanting to play with dangerous things. The list goes on. Etta is in great hands with her mommy. And I wouldn't trust little Etta with anyone else. I love them both and am shocked they put up with me. :)

-I'm grateful for the time away. This seems like a strange thing to be grateful for, but I am. Whenever I'm away from little Etta, I realize just how much of a temporary void there is. I realize how much I miss every little thing that she does. And while sometimes I Etta day dream while I'm away for work, it's these day dreams that make me drive home faster than normal from the airport. It's these day dreams that make me giddy when taking the Center Street exit in Orem. It's these day dreams that make me pull into my driveway at about 40MPH. I'm grateful for the lack of police officers in Orem on the day I get back home.

-I'm grateful for some very good and close friends who have offered so much great parenting advice. And I'm not referring to moments when they've sat me down or called me and offered advice. I'm referring to the small things that I see them do or that I read about them doing with their children that make an impact on me. I'm talking about the quiet advice I see from the way they act and the way they parent. I've learned so much from these friends and they don't even know it. I love them all and I'll continue subtly learning from them every time I see them with their children.

-I'm grateful for Etta herself. I was talking with a buddy the other day about some things people say to parents and one of them was "God must really trust you with that little one." And I got to thinking that I disagree with that phrase completely. In fact, I don't think God trusts me at all with Etta--that's why she has Annie. I'm not sure I'm His go to guy for anything, much more the raising of one of His spiritual children. I don't think He says to himself much "Ok, we've got some very special spirits up here. Let's send them to the Flanman, he's all over this." Quite the opposite. I think that God trusts Etta so much that he sent her to me. The correct phrase is this "God must really trust Etta with you." He knows I'm going to mess things up a lot, but he trusts Etta enough to be a part of my life, and I'm forever grateful for that--to God and to Etta.

I really don't know a lot (contrary to those who affectionately think of me as a know-it-all). But I know that I love Etta. I know that I want her in my life. I know that the list of grateful moments I've noticed sense attending that beautiful funeral is larger and could go on and on.

I know that a little family lost a daughter and it brought them closer together. What I bet they didn't know was that the loss of their daughter and their subsequent coming together has put my mind in motion and has helped bring me even closer to my own daughter. And I'm grateful for that.

I can't imagine the heartbreak they must feel, but I can imagine the love they also feel. And I can see the love they radiate. And I hope I can always continue to feel and radiate that love towards that little 28 inch, 26 pound, wrecking ball of joy that has lived in my home for 14 months now.

Thank you to everyone.