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.

North Korea Tension--It Affects Us All

As I was traveling this last week I started reading my most recent issue of Sports Illustrated and the cover story featured Dennis Rodman and his now famous trip to North Korea to apparently hang out with the dictator Kim Jong Un (who, by virtue of me typing his name in my blog is probably now well aware of my blog and who I am).

I laughed at the thought of Rodman indirectly representing our country with North Korea and wondered what exactly will ever come of that, if anything.

Then, just before take off, I glanced at a picture of Etta on my phone and I teared up and had to look away in order to maintain my cool guy persona I go for. But, in that second I realized the key to figuring out the conflict with North Korea, and it's Etta.

I started thinking--you'd be hard-pressed to come to a unanimous consensus amongst the American and the North Korean leaders as to the adorableness and the gentleness of one Dennis Rodman, but you throw Etta in there as America's "representative" and suddenly both countries find themselves in complete alignment--on one issue at least--the adorableness and gentleness of Etta.

I don't know, it's worth a try, I mean, nothing else anyone else has tried seems to be working.

In my life, I realize that I am terribly too hard on myself in many respects and terribly too easy on myself in others. I realize that certain days I really like what has come to be "me", and other days I'm not exactly the biggest fan of "me." I realize I'll go days, weeks, months of bottling up every emotion that I feel until they all seem to come out in a manner of minutes. And I realize, more than anything, that it's not exactly a healthy response--but it's me, and I have to deal with it.

But what I've also realized is that when I feel my own North Korea tension in my life, it always seems to be Etta's presence that calms things. It's always that sweet smile, her scrunched up nose, her wrinkles on her face, that ease the tension.

I'm no different than most people--my life is full of North Korean tension moments. Anxiety, stress, failures, etc...but what I do have that makes me fortunate is an Etta to alleviate the headaches.

Several weeks ago, my softball team lost a really tough game on our weekly double-header night on what I deemed to be a bad call by an umpire. I was so upset. After voicing my dissatisfaction to the umpire (who happened to be a good friend of mine), I realized that softball was really just the medium for me to reach that type of boiling point and that the combination of my North Korea tension had been too much for me and it had finally boiled over. I was steaming mad and not even sure what I was most mad or stressed about.

After the first game, I walked out of the dugout to switch fields with my team when I noticed Annie and Etta walking towards the field. They hadn't come to the first game, but made it down there for the second game. I instantly smiled. I instantly forgot about all the conflict, controversy, and tension from the first game and from life in general. Etta had a giant smile when she saw me and I couldn't help but smile back, bend down, kiss her, and proceed to the next game with a bounce in my step only a proud daddy could have.

She had done it. She solved the North Korea tension in my life--if even for a moment.

As I think about Etta, I realize that there is a list of about a thousand things that will make her happy at any given moment and will make her forget about the things that are causing her stress or frustrations in her little life. First on that list is watermelon.

It doesn't matter what has happened to Etta or why she is mad about something. If you give her some watermelon, she's fine. It's like the worst thing in her world that just happened never existed.

Her list of pacifiers (not actual pacifiers, just things that make her forget about her own North Korea tensions) include, in addition to watermelon, her sippy cup, a grown-up water bottle, her keys, my keys, Annie's keys, my phone, Annie's phone, the vacuum cleaner, walking, more walking, even more walking, her swing out front, getting the mail, Sandy, her blankie, her toothbrush, her comb, the lavender bottle, her actual bottle, her bathtub, her bath toys, cookies, chips, an empty Diet Coke can, and did I mention walking...?

These things, in addition to a myriad of others,  are so simple, yet so effective. They calm her right down. They ease all the little stresses, anxieties, frustrations that can intrude on her little perfect life. It's happiness in simplicity at it's very best. She exemplifies happy.

I tried to make a list of things in my own life that have the safe affect on me--a list of things that cure the North Korea tension in my own life--and I couldn't. I wish I could sit here and say that my list included, my scriptures, my hymn book, my DVD of Saturday's Warrior or even my Atlanta Braves.

I'm not sure I even have a more trivial list of things like a sippy cup, a blankie, walking, etc...in fact, I know I don't.

Really, my biggest thing in my life is her. It's that little, talking, walking resolution to conflict, stress, and frustration that is Etta.

It's the moments we get in the car and I look back and she extends her hand to me so that we can hold hands while I drive (a regular occurrence). It's when she laughs at my jokes. It's when she smiles when I chase her. It's when she claps when I hide from her while she's in the swing.

It's when she closes her eyes to give me a kiss. It's when she walks up to me and hugs my leg. It's when we share a cookie. It's when she sits on my shoulders and I catch her reflection in a window and see her smiling with her hands on my head. It's when she dances--sometimes when there's not music in earshot. It's when we dance together. It's when I just dance and she laughs. It's when she gets excited to take garbage to the trash can. It's when she waves goodbye to people five minutes after they've left.

It's when I cry from literally just thinking about her. It's because despite all my shortcomings, despite my insecurities, my inadequacies, my inabilities, she loves me.

As she grows up, her list of things that ease the North Korea tensions in her life is going to change, and it's going to include stupid things, I'm sure, (phone, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, stupid boys, boys who are probably nice, but are still stupid to me, pop singers, movies, probably chips and cookies still, etc...).

And while she ought to make her list in pencil as to allow for all the change, I'll go ahead right now and write mine in permanent marker.

My list is her.

Shut The Gate, Kyle. Shut The Gate

EDITORS NOTE: Etta's fine. She's ok. 

The staircase in my house has 12 stairs that lead from the kitchen to the basement.

When we first set up the gate guarding the entrance to the staircase from the kitchen, I never imagined that someday I would step out into the downstairs hallway just in time to see my daughter's walker be launched from step six and flip her over and slam her little body down face first on the hallway floor.

But tonight, that horror happened. And it happened fast.

I've walked those 12 steps holding Etta hundreds of times. I've helped her walk up the stairs dozens of times. And I've shut that stupid gate over and over again. Each time I've gone down, I've shut the gate. Each time I've come back up, I've shut the gate.

Tonight, I didn't. I ran downstairs to set the Braves game to record. I was standing by our office desk and heard a noise. I stepped out in the hall just in time to see it unfold in front of my eyes.

There are some things in life that simply can't be unseen. I'd give anything to unsee the image of my little daughter helplessly skipping the last six steps of the staircase in a tumbling walker.

But since I can't unsee it, I will say that I was super impressed and I attribute her well-being to the fact that her body did nothing of any type of attempt to brace itself--which I think probably helped her avoid serious injury. What I saw rolling through the air was a limp, noodle of a body...and I think that helped keep her safe.

I got to her quickly. Pulled her out of the walker, completely unsure of how she was. I kept her neck stable because the way she landed on it was haunting. I carried her into the living room downstairs. Laid her on her back and hovered over her. I quickly checked her legs and her arms, hoping and praying that I didn't find a broken one. I kept her head steady until she, completely freaking out, rolled over. At that point, I figured she was probably ok, as far as her neck and limbs went.

I picked her up as she opened her mouth screaming. As she opened her little mouth, blood ran over her lips and onto her chin. She coughed and spit blood. She drooled blood. At that point, her little nose began bleeding as well. Her little hands worked tirelessly to clear the blood away from her mouth and nose and as a result, smeared blood all over her round face.

By the time I was carrying her upstairs, Annie had called an ambulance (because of how she saw Etta laying on her neck at the bottom of the stairs). I held Etta close and tight, still not sure how she really was. She screamed, and screamed, and screamed. I cried, and cried, and cried.

In the 3-5 minutes that passed between when I came upstairs and the ambulance arrived, I uttered the phrase "shut the gate Kyle, just shut the gate" at least a hundred times.

I understand the "don't beat yourself up" logic, but I can't seem to let it apply to me here. I'm crushed.

The paramedics arrived. Assessed the situation. They were fantastic. They were quick, friendly, supportive, loving, and most importantly, concerned with Etta's well-being.

I don't recall their names, but I'm very grateful for their reassurance that Etta was just banged up, but that she would be ok.

After the paramedics left, Etta screamed hard off and on before I rocked her while she ate a bottle. The bottle calmed her down and she finished it with a smile. The left side of her face is rugburn, her eye is swollen and bruised, her face has a couple cuts and her mouth is cut. But she's ok.

Fortunately for her, she'll forget that it ever happened. Unfortunately for me, I can't. Probably why I'm writing a blogpost at 1am.

I've often talked about getting an Etta tattoo on my arm. I noticed that one of the paramedics had our address written on his forearm in pen--I'm assuming he wrote where he could when getting the call about Etta, and his forearm seemed like a logical place because it was easy to see.

While I can't say for sure if I'll get the Etta tattoo on my arm, I'm very much considering the phrase "shut the gate, Kyle" tattooed across my forearm.

If I never remember another thing in my life, I'll forever remember to shut the gate.

The paramedics and our friends and families reassured us that babies are resilient, and I'm forever grateful for that.

One thing that's not feeling resilient right now: my emotional psyche.

The staircase in my house has 12 stairs that lead from the kitchen to the basement.

All 12 of them have a new meaning to me now.