Covid Scare - August 2020

                “So, he tested positive?... And when was the test?... And we hung out 5 days ago?... okay… Thanks so much for calling and letting us know. He’s asymptomatic, still?... Good. I hope you guys stay healthy and safe. Thank you.” Wifey hangs up the phone and looks at me. “Well, poop.”

                “What should we do?” I ask.

                “One of us needs to go get a Q-tip brain puncture…. Not it.” Wifey laughs as she puts her finger onto her nose.

                “I’ll do it.”

                “Fine by me.”

                I did the walk-up testing at LTCC that afternoon and then we started waiting… and waiting… and waiting. Not knowing whether of not you have Covid is nerve-wracking. You overanalyze every little feeling and start to make yourself sick with worry. We had some Ginger Ale designated for anytime someone in the family felt nauseous.

                “I’m obnoxious! I want Ginger Ale,” Michael protested.

                This led to an enjoyable lesson in homophone words and some corny jokes whenever our kiddos were acting super silly: “Mommy, look at me I’m so obnoxious, you better give me some Ginger Ale!” Jane would scream while streaking through the house with stuffed animals jammed inside her clothing.

At one point I started coughing repeatedly and Wifey ran over with the thermometer.

“I’m good,” I say choking back some tears. “I was just (cough)… trying to open this (cough)… plastic wrapper and I (cough)… swallowed some plastic.”

“Let me get you some water.”

“Thanks.”

We also had to basically shut down all outside contact until we had my test results back. We disenrolled from kiddo camp activities. We dug deep into the pantry for food. Wifey went for a run with a mask on and got heckled. I was supposed to work in Reno, so I drove down with the required equipment and just had others unload it from the back of my truck, while I helplessly watched with my windows rolled up.

The whole 6 days that we waited for my test results were surreal. Lots of discussions ensued about the pros and cons of contracting Covid and if we were just asymptomatic. We thought a lot about our responsibility to keep people safe by staying away from them. The rare times that we did go out, we chose locations, times, and activities where we could be sure that we would be completely separate from other people.

It felt like a sad irony of sorts. We hadn’t been out doing anything that we thought could have exposed us. We had been really careful. No eating out at restaurants at all. No haircuts; I’m starting to look a bit like John Lennon (which I think I’m okay with). Masks in public always. And only socializing with a few select friends and family and in even in those situations, not sharing food, not touching, and meeting outdoors. But Covid still found us. And that, I suppose, was the real lesson: you could be diligent and follow guidelines and while certainly this will reduce your chances of contracting the virus, it can’t eliminate them.   

Thankfully, my test results came back negative. I was able to responsibly return to work. Our kiddos were able to go back to their activities. And Wifey could go for a heckle-free run. Since our little Covid scare, I’ve been getting tested every other week. It just feels like the right thing to do because the reality is, we really don’t know. There are so many people in and out of Tahoe right now and with “school” starting in the limited form that it is, it just makes sense to have the information. Between Wifey and I, we know personally now at least 6 people who have been infected, none of which we’ve had contact with recently, but it’s still unsettling. Having routine testing gives us at least some data points and my most recent test results were processed faster than the first, so that helps too.

“Dad?”

“Yeah, Michael?”

“Why can’t we go to school? I miss my friends.”

“You will be able to go to school, Buddy. And you will see your friends again…” I reach out and mess his shaggy hair. “Just not yet. We will see how other parts of the country that are going back to regular school do, first. If it looks safe and teachers and kiddos aren’t getting sick, I’m sure you’ll be going back to school really soon. If it looks like people do get sick wherever schools are opening back up, then it will take a bit longer.”

Michael seems to think about this for a while. “I guess that makes sense.”

Don’t Eat Deet - July 2020

“Man, it sucks that you ate Deet!” Wifey said. “I’m really sorry.”   

“It’s okay. I haven’t spent that much time on the toilet since the romaine-lettuce-ecoli thing about two years ago.”

Wifey shakes her head and says, “Note to self, shower after Deet.”

“Agreed. And I’ll remember to not nibble your neck when we’re fresh off the trail.”

“Oh, I like it when you nibble my neck.”

“I’m not saying that I’ll forgo nibbling altogether, I’ll just be more, well… selective.” 

            I thought I’d lighten the mood with this column and just focus on some non-political, non-Covid misadventures that our family has stumbled upon over the past month or so.

            We were all super excited when I scored a “golden ticket” for the 4 of us to go backcountry camping in Tuolumne Meadows just a few days after Tioga Pass had opened. I had delusional visions of doing epic multi-pitch climbs with my two kiddos and wife in tow and then sneaking back to our campsite each night.

            Of course, the stars didn’t quite align to my expectations. 

            “Dad, I hate climbing!” Jane exclaimed while tied into the anchor bolts just past the amazing detached “Hermaphrodite Flake” on Stately Pleasure Dome.

            “You liked doing this sort of thing last year.”

            “I never want to go climbing again!” Jane shrieked.

            Wifey looked at me and shrugged. “Maybe we should just rap off.”

            I consented and rigged the rappel. Which ironically Jane really enjoyed and perhaps was the reason she felt like she could climb again the next day. 

            We made our way up Murphy Creek later that afternoon and found a secluded and sublime little spot on a granite shoulder with water gurgling in the background. Jane and Michael excitedly set up the “kitchen” and the “bathroom” while we pitched the tent and hooked up our water filter and hammocks. It was magical like only Yosemite can be.

            We had fun adventures in Tuolumne and in the main Yosemite Valley over the next few days, but unfortunately our trip seemed to coincide with a biblically proportioned hatching of our least favorite animal, the mosquito.         

            “Ah, remind me to hold it next time,” I exclaim as I get back to camp.

            “What happened?” Michael asked.

            “I had to swat a mosquito on my… you know, while I was going… you know.”

            “Ouch. It bit you on the balls?” Michael empathizes with me. “What purpose do mosquitos even serve?”  

            We ended up looking that one up when we got home, mosquitos are food for fish, birds, frogs, and other animals in case you are wondering. At least my discomfort could be a teachable moment for our kiddos.

            Besides a little Yosemite trip, we hosted Wifey’s sister and her family from Gilroy a couple weeks ago. One of the highlights of their visit was a “boat race” in the meadow for the kids down a long lazy bend in the Upper Truckee river.  

            Jane and Michael and their 3 cousins spent hours decorating and hot gluing their plastic-bottle-popsicle-stick-and-duct-tape boat creations. Jane’s vessel had a Cinderella figurine proudly hot glued to its prow, which, when set in water, quickly flipped over making Cinderella a much better rudder than hood ornament.

            On the day of the big race, I waded into the stream with the 5 boats and a long paddle to keep the start of the race even. We all watched from the bank and counted down for the big release.

            “Ten, nine, eight, seven…. Go!” I lifted the paddle and let the current take the boats. “And they’re off.”

            We watched as the five boats started making their way downstream a lot slower than any of us anticipated. Almost immediately boats got caught in downed trees or backwater eddies. At first we just gave only Michael permission to get in the water and fix any stuck boats, but after many protests from the other children and calls of “that’s not fair!” and “What about my boat?” We finally consented to let all the kids hop in. This would have been fine if we had planned for it and dressed everyone appropriately, but instead our children basically had to shed their clothing and get into the river wearing close to nothing.

            The boats were also beginning to look a whole lot less like they had just a few minutes before. Each time one got stuck and subsequently retrieved, it would be tossed as far as that kid could throw further downstream. The result was that I ended up basically picking up all the discarded pieces behind them.

            At some point close to the established “finish line” a kayaker came paddling by. His eyes grew wide as he watched the naked kids chasing trash down the river while their parents took pictures and shouted encouragement from the shore.

            Simple memories and laughter like these are available even when the world seems turned upside down. They just take some willingness to get outside, be creative, put up with some mosquito bites, and laugh at yourself. Ultimately, I want my children to remember this strange time in their lives not for all the things they couldn’t do, but for the silly and simple things that we did do.

Black Lives Matter - June 2020

“So what did you guys think of the protest?” I ask our kiddos as we buckle up to drive home from Lakeview Commons.

“It was great,” Michael, our 10-year-old, responds.

“I suppose in some ways it was great, Buddy. What else?”

“It was surprising how many people were there, more than I thought.”

“I thought that it was good too,” Jane, our 9-year-old, says. “I liked the chants and being there with everyone and I’m glad it wasn’t a violent protest.”

“Yeah,” Michael adds, “Black people are dying because of the color of their skin.  It’s a serious problem.”

“It’s true,” I say. “It is a serious problem. The way that our society looks at and treats black people, and really anyone who isn’t white, isn’t fair and is sometimes really dangerous and can kill them.”

“Like George Floyd,” Michael says.

“Right.”

Wifey and I have been having some really constructive and uncomfortable conversations with our kids about the Black Lives Matter protests, about riots and violence, about their privilege and opportunities compared to other people, and about this moment in history. It’s not always easy, but it feels like the right thing to do.

“Why are they burning things and hurting people?” Jane asks while watching the news.

Wifey pauses the TV and looks at Jane, “Well honey, some people are not there for the right reasons and are taking advantage of the protests and doing bad things.”

“Why?”

“Lots of reasons. Some people are angry. But they might also be hungry or want to steal things because they haven’t had a job for so long now.”

The former history teacher in me can’t resist jumping in, “Our country was actually founded in part because of rioting. The American colonists rioted against the British. Did you learn about the Boston Tea Party in school?”

“I did,” Michael says.

“Cool. Throughout our history we’ve rioted, the Whiskey Rebellion, John Brown’s uprising to arm slaves that helped spark the Civil War. So much of our nation is founded in the idea of insurrection and resistance when things aren’t right. And sometimes it gets violent.”

“Peaceful is better though,” Wifey says.

“Yes,” I quickly agree.

We all sit quietly for a while with Lester Holt paused on the television staring over us. Wifey is about to hit play when Jane asks, “How do we fix the problem?”

“That’s the question to answer, isn’t it?” Wifey says.

“Do the protests help?” Jane asks.

“They do,” Wifey says.

“How?”

“They let lawmakers and everyone know that there is a problem and it needs to be fixed.”

“How do we fix it though?”

There’s another long pause in the conversation and then I jump in again, “There’s no one single answer. Former President Barack Obama held a virtual town hall this week, and he thinks we need to vote the right people into local offices that will improve and reform local policing. But it’s not just law enforcement; it’s how we spend our money too, Juneteenth is coming up, it’s a holiday to celebrate the emancipation proclamation. On Juneteeth, Friday, June 19th, we should all support black-owned businesses. And there’s so much more.”

“Dad?” Michael speaks up.

“Yeah?”

“Weren’t you saying that we need to pay cops more?”

“Cops and teachers definitely need to be paid more. Our society, America, places value on things with money. How much we pay someone is essentially how much we value them and their contribution. It’s kind of how America and capitalism work and it has given our country more innovation and wealth than anywhere else in the world, but it has its problems too. If we paid police more, we’d value them more. There would be more competition for those critical jobs with higher standards, more education, and training required to be a cop. Did you know that in some places more schooling and licensing is required to cut hair than to become a police officer?”

“Really?” Jane asks. “I’m a good hair cutter. I cut Daddy’s hair.”

“Thanks Kiddo. I’m glad that I don’t have mullet anymore.”

Zooming Through Quarantine - May 2020

“We’re at day 50 of quarantine!” Wifey exclaims.

                “That’s insane,” I say.  “I’m so over 4th grade math. If I never see another mixed number equation or an improper fraction again in my life, I’d be a happy guy.”

                “So, how long has it been since Jane showered?” Wifey asks.

                “Not sure,” I respond. “I mean she doesn’t smell as much as Michael, so she doesn’t really need as much bathing, but wow… Um, I’m trying to remember.”

                “That’s true. Come to think of it, I think it’s been over a week.”

                “Yeah,” the realization dawns on me. “Wow, quarantine standards for hygiene are pretty low.”

                “So are the quarantine standards for haircuts.”

                “Are you talking about my work on Michael’s mullet or Jane’s diagonal bangs?”

                “A little of both, I guess.” Wifey laughs. “She insisted I cut 4 inches off, and now I know never to cut hair again.”

                Spending this much time at home has had its benefits too. We’ve got a pretty amazing start to our vegetable garden this year and have been ticking off our home project list with everyone getting involved and taking ownership. But the real eye-opener has been cooking. Early in the quarantine, we Netflix binge-watched the first season of Master Chef Junior as a family and ever since then, our meals have been getting progressively more creative and dare-I-say culinary. Jane has taken to “plating” with an artistic flare, Michael has even tried to replicate certain contest dishes for the show exactly, and we’ve only nearly blown up the house once, when they left the gas to the stove running.

                “I’m so sick of the kids trying to find my candy stash,” Wifey exclaims. “So sick that I hid it so well, that now I can’t find the damn thing.”

                “Really?” I ask.

                “Yeah, I have no idea. I think I even twisted my ankle looking for it when I fell backwards from the top shelf of the hall closet and landed on a ski boot.”

“Ouch. Want to go to the ER?” I laugh.

“I’m all good. No medical attention needed and now I’ve got a reason to put away the winter gear.”

The Zoom life has presented its challenges. Somehow, every Zoom call has at least one person who we either can’t see or can’t hear, and people have had unexpected interference by their children. It is cliché, but as soon as you get on a Zoom meeting it seems like your children suddenly need your attention and will go to great lengths to get it. Jane actually forcibly stuffed a pancake in Wifey’s mouth during a Zoom faculty meeting. I had Michael, post-shower, streak half-naked past my computer camera shouting, “OohGa… OohGa... OohGa...” That went over really well with my clients and was a great testimonial for my management skills. 

And then there’s Wifey’s Zoom Escobar karate and kickboxing classes that the kids drop in on and execute what can only be described as ninja-dancing in the background, while Wifey tries to get exercise and everyone else tries to keep a straight face. And once, no one could find Wifey for about an hour. Turns out she was hiding in her closet to Zoom with her classes.

Of course the kids have Zoom obligations too. Jane has her weekly gymnastics meetings at 9am, a time that has become the new “get-up-early” norm. Michael has been Zooming with his teacher and talking with his friends about how to spend the least amount of time on homework. It is entertaining to watch them interact with their friends, literally shouting at each other because they feel so far away.

                A couple final notes: thanks to all the local businesses that have stayed open and have been keeping us fed and connected. And a big thanks to all those who submitted artwork for our ONCE UPON A QUARANTINE children’s book. We’ve got a publisher at this point and are getting closer on layout and formatting. I’ll keep you posted as we get closer to an actual print edition.

Talking Politics with Kids - March 2020

“Okay kiddos, everyone buckled up? Alright, what happened last night?”

“It was THE Tuesday…. The big one.” Michael says.

“Super Tuesday.” Jane interrupts.

“That’s right,” I say. “And what makes the day so super?”

“Everyone votes,” our neighbor Mateo whom I drive to school on Wednesday answers.

“Very good, Buddy.”

“Why is it important to vote?” I follow up.

“To get rid of Trump,” Michael yells.

“Not according to NeeNee and Poppy,” Jane corrects him.

I laugh and add, “That’s true, Jane. Voting is how we make decisions in a democracy. It is arguably the most important thing we do as citizens.” I pause and hope that some of the concept sinks into the three elementary school brains that I’m chauffeuring to school. “Now, do you all want to hear something interesting that happened last night?”

“What, that Bernie Sanders won?” Michael tries to be sarcastic.

“No, this has to do with one of the billionaires who wanted to be president.” I say. “What is the name of the guy who we keep seeing advertisements for?”

“Bloomberg!” Michael and Jane shout.

“Yeah, he thinks he can buy the president,” Jane adds.

“Not the president, the presidency,” I say. “He did win something last night on Super Tuesday. Can you guys guess what he won?”

“What? California?” Michael asks.

“No way.” Mateo says.

“No. Not California, guys.” I say. “He won an island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean.”

“Hawaii?” Jane asks.

“Close, but not Hawaii.” I reply. “Bloomberg got the most votes on an island called American Samoa.”

“You mean where the Girl Scout cookies come from?” Jane asks. “Samoas?”

“I know where Mommy keeps her secret stash of Samoas!” Michael says.

“Does he get all the Girl Scout cookies now?” Mateo asks.

“I don’t think so.” I say. “But that would be a cool consolation prize for all the money he’s spent. By the way, nobody is allowed to touch Mommy’s Girl Scout cookies.”

This past fall we took the kiddos on a trip to Washington DC. As a former history teacher, touring my own offspring around our nation’s capital was a real dream come true for me. We did Mount Vernon, the African American History Museum, and other Smithsonian destinations. We even managed a White House tour and a staffer tour of the Capital with an impromptu awkward question from Michael to Tom McClintock’s staff, “Is Trump getting impeached by Tom McClintock?”

Ever since the trip, we’ve been talking about politics on our drives to and from school. Michael and Jane can identify many of the candidates and even seem to understand some of the issues.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yeah, Michael?”

“Why do we need a new President?”

“Well not everyone thinks that we do need a new President. That’s why we have elections and why we vote.”

“That’s why we don’t have a King?”

“Absolutely.” I smile at my son. “Very good, Buddy. Do you remember all of the king-like stuff around DC?”

“Oh yeah, there’s the Washington Monument, all the huge sculptures of people and the painting of Washington going to be with God in that ceiling in the Capital.”

“The Rotunda, that’s right.” I laugh. “Directly over top of where the architects wanted to have George buried, almost like an Egyptian Pharaoh in a pyramid. Crazy isn’t it? Sometimes people, the citizens, want to have kings and authoritarians, but George Washington was smarter than that, wasn’t he? 2 terms in office was all that he served and when he died what happened? Did he get buried like a Pharaoh under the Capital Dome?”

“No, I remember.” Michael gets excited. “He wanted to be buried at Mount Vernon, his home where we visited. And he didn’t even have the word President written on his tomb, just “General.”

We both sit in silence for a while.

“Hey Dad?”

“Yeah, Buddy?”

“When do I get to vote?”

“In another 8 years, Michael.”

“Cool.”

“Yeah, you’re right. It is pretty cool.”

Redefining Manhood - February 2020

I think quite a bit about what sort of people I’m raising, about who my kids will become and who I want them to be.

I recently read an article in the Atlantic magazine arguing that we need a new definition for manhood. That “now it’s time to rethink assumptions about how we raise boys.” In the article, Peggy Orenstein writes that while feminism, #metoo and women’s liberation have broadened the parameters in which women can find viable and socially accepted identities, the converse is true for men. She argues that what it means to be a man in America today is basically the same exact thing that it meant 50 years ago. We raise our boys to ‘suck it up,’ be assertive, isolated, and competitive, ‘don’t cry,’ and despite the backdrop of the #metoo movement, boys are trained to objectify women. This rigid and angry male caste has at least some causal relationship to the violence and pain that manifests itself in everything from school shootings to drug abuse to homelessness.

I agree with her central argument, that we do, as a society, need to broaden the spectrum of what it means to be a man, but I’m much more hopeful watching my son.

“Michael, I think your idea to take a few friends on a bigger adventure for your birthday is fine.”

“But Dad, I feel bad for the rest of the kids in my class. It’s not fair to them.”

“That’s big of you to say, Buddy, but I’m not taking 30 kids to Reno for Go-karting.”

“What do I do then?”

Eventually, Michael came up with the idea of giving everyone in his class an invitation to come “hang out” with him sometime. He wrote out a cool little note with Wifey’s phone number and a blank where each classmates name would go. After photocopying them, Wifey had some reservations.

“Michael, this is really great, but you are definitely signing us up for a lot of playdates here,” Wifey laughed. 

“Sorry, Mommy, we’ll try to do it groups.”

            My warped version of reality isn’t solely a product of my son’s altruism. It’s also attributable to where we live. When you choose to live in Tahoe, “poverty with a view,” as some locals refer to it, there are certain sacrifices and physical realities that bend gender roles. Women here are just tougher than most places. My 65-year-old recently widowed neighbor was out shoveling snow this past storm for my other neighbor, a 30-something guy, who threw out his back snowmobiling.    

            I’m lucky to have guy friends who are outside the standard norms for male identity and are OK with it. Dad as primary or coequal caregiver-housekeeper-grocery shopper is a pretty awesome reality that I see more and more. It has its perks too, as one friend says, “Hey, I drop the kids off and get a few hours to go play in the mountains.”

Personally, I’m proud to do dishes. I’m proud to cook meals. I’m proud to scrub toilets and clean my house, damnit. Why? Not just because of what it means to me, but because of what it models to my son.

Ultimately, Michael is a better person than I am. I never would have thought to empathize with my entire class of boys and girls and get everyone’s name spelled correctly, Michael surprised us yet again.

“Oh Mommy, I don’t think his parents speak English.” Michael said. “Can we change this one to Spanish?”

“Wow.” I said. “Do you think we should order a DNA test?”

“I’m pretty sure he’s ours.” Wifey smiled. We both look at him from a distance with a strange concoction of uncertainty and pride.

“What are you guys talking about?” Michael asked.

Peggy’s article concludes with the thesis that we need new “models of manhood that are neither ashamed nor regressive and that emphasize emotional flexibility—a hallmark of mental health.” Essentially, rather than shaming boys for being too aggressive, too mean, and too angry, we need to encourage connection to others without judgment.  

The best thing I can do for Michael is to nurture his innate compassionate sensibility, to encourage his thoughtfulness and to never tell him like I was told by countless coaches, peers, and role models to ‘suck it up’ and ‘be a man.’ Because what does that even mean? Certainly not what it used to.

Don’t Stop Believing - December 2019

Michael, our 9-year-old, has shown an ability to handle mature discussions. More and more, we’ve encouraged him with honest answers to his inquiries about the nightly news; we’ve helped him think through underlying motivations for the drama-de-jour at school; and we’ve explained that “Yeah Buddy, you need to shower every day now, because as you get older your body changes, and well, you…”

“Stink. Just say it, Dad,” Michael laughs. “I get pretty stinky.”

The only other childhood atmosphere still hovering around Michael, like his occasional body odor, which Wifey and I have really tried to preserve for him, is the magic, the wonderful suspension of disbelief that constitutes some of the best memories of childhood, especially around Christmastime. Michael and his younger sister Jane are knocking on the door of that phase of life when Jean Piaget, the renowned child psychologist, admits that this childish magic evaporates into the “concrete operational stage” of early adolescence.

So, it was perhaps not the best parental judgment call, when Wifey and I allowed Michael to participate in a game of KinderPerfect: A Card Game for Parents. For those not familiar with the game, it’s a lot like Apples-to-Apples or Cards Against Humanity, but geared specifically for parents so that they can laugh at funny pairings of… “The birthday party was ruined by_____________” and various answers, like “a screaming kid that does not belong to you,” “Doing the bare a#% minimum,” and “sharts.”

We should have thought through some of the potential pitfalls before allowing Michael to play alongside the adults. When the card “Forgetting to move the Elf on the Shelf” was paired with “The reason Mommy drinks,” we knew the gig was up.

Wifey and I had to quickly curate that remaining deck of cards and develop a quick magic-preservation game plan. That night’s bedtime story session was particularly challenging. Michael had more than a few of his normally insightful questions.

“Well Kiddo, you know how Santa has helpers,” I fumble as he stares expectantly at me from his pillow with his big curious eyes. “…like the Santas that you see at school or the mall or the Christmas fair. Mommy and I are kind of like that. We help Santa.”

Sensing that we were more invested in his childhood than he was, Michael immediately angled for a way to exploit our error, “So can I help too… you know, by hiding the Elf?”

“Ummm.”

“Please, Dad.” Michael pleads. “I won’t say anything to Jane. I just really want to touch it first.”

With some trepidation we agreed to allow Michael to occasionally help hide the Elf. That Saturday, the last day of November, I left on a business trip and for a 25th year high school class reunion.

The very next day was December 1st and I woke up to the following text message from Wifey: “Ugh, want to hear some Shelf Elf drama? Well, Michael helped me set it up while the girls were playing in the snow. I tell him, ‘Don’t lead them to the Elf, let them find it.’ Literally 5 seconds later, he says, ‘Guys, I think the Elf on the Shelf came!’ Lo and behold, they find it and I say to the girls, ‘Remember, don’t touch the Elf. Let’s read the book to see why.’ I turn around to grab the book, and Jane’s friend touches it. Jane bursts into tears and runs to hug Uncle Jon who is just moseying out of bed to get coffee and is like, ‘What? I just woke up, drama already?’ We read the damn book, and then I google how to get the magic back. Apparently if you put cinnamon next to the Elf and sing it Christmas carols, it gets its magic back. Who knew? Now they are all singing, even Michael. I’m putting a splash of vodka in my coffee eggnog.”

I pick up the phone and call.

“Hey.” Wifey immediate answers.

“How’s the eggnog?”

“Strong.”

“Sounds like a rough morning.”

“Always exciting around here. How was the reunion?”

“Entertaining-ish, in a car-accident-kind-of-way.”

“Oh, come on…”

“It was fine. I might wait another 25 years to go to the next one though. Frankly the Elf drama sounds like a lot more fun. Good work on diffusing the tantrum.”

“Thanks. It wasn’t too awful.”

“Man, we are fighting to keep that magic.”

“It’s a war out there.”   

In past columns I’ve lamented about the ethical underpinnings of the Elf on the Shelf phenomenon, namely that brothers and sisters should spy on each other. This year we are just trying to have fun with the Elf. 

“Daddy, look where the Elf is… Look!” Jane shrieks with delight and pulls me into the pantry where the Elf has strategically inverted herself head first into our jar of white sugar.  

“I guess the cookies we left her weren’t enough,” I laugh.

“Yeah, she’s really can’t get enough sugar.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know...” I tickle Jane in the belly.

                This might be the last year for the Christmas magic for our family. Statistically, we are actually past the point of no return. According to the Exeter Santa Survey, 75% of 8-year-olds in the United States no longer believed in Santa and this seems to fit with a great deal of what Jane and Michael are learning from classmates at school. Wifey and I are committed though, despite early some missteps, we are in full fantasy-preservation mode. Wish us luck.

That’s The Good Stuff - Fall 2019

“We got this,” I said as Wifey and I sized up the surf thundering onto the beach in front of our little neon sea kayak.

“I don’t know,” Wifey raised her eyebrows.

“I think we can do it.”

“We could get help from the guides, but all right.”

“After this set. One. Two. Three. Go!”

I pushed our kayak loaded with the camping gear we used to survive the past 2 nights down Milolii Beach and into the Pacific Ocean. Jumping into the rear, I was a half a beat slow, but we got pointed in the right direction and pulled deep with our paddles.

“Oh no!” Wifey said, watching the surf pull back into a larger wave set than we anticipated.

                “Here we go,” I shouted. “Dig!”

                The wave crested, taking the front of our kayak and Wifey with it. For a brief moment I thought we might clear the lip and rock forward, but Mother Nature had other plans. Our alignment was just a few degrees off and the wave threw us and all of our belongings like a coin toss into the ocean.

                Fortunately, our camping gear was lashed down well and the guides helped us reposition and make a successful launch on our next try.

                “Wooo! That was awesome.” I exclaimed once we were out past the breakers and waiting for the rest of the day-trip tour to launch.

                 “Wow, we’re a hot mess.” Wifey responded. “And we’re scaring the rest of the tour from wanting to leave the beach.”  

                “True. They have to leave eventually.” I shrugged.  “That was kind of fun.”

                I could almost see Wifey’s internal risk avoidance calculator crunching the pros and con of encouraging me. Finally she looked back, smirked casually and said, “Yeah, that’s the good stuff.”

                Trips and adventures don’t always go exactly as planned. It’s when we’re challenged by unexpected circumstances, that growth and a healthy (and sometimes literal) splash of humility happens. Wifey is right: it’s the good stuff.

                Parenting is kinda like that too. We plot. We plan. We try to set our family trips up for success, but our offspring have their own agendas and there’s just no anticipating how they’ll flip our world on its head. Sometimes it’s just silly, like Michael’s obsession with all things butt. “Look at that bear’s butt.” Or the time this summer when he literally got a splinter in his butt and thought it was more funny than painful. “Mommy, Mommy, quick! Pull the splinter out of my butt!” He said while rolling in hysterics on the floor.

                “Hold still, Michael.” Wifey laughed. “I need to pinch...”

                “…My butt.” Michael erupted in laughter again.

                “Nurse Butt reporting for duty,” Wifey laughed.

Butt, I mean but, then they surprise you, Michael at 9-years-old, started lead-climbing this year and even bagged his first outdoor onsight, when you lead-climb a route from the ground up without hanging on the rope and without any beta (advice) on the climb.

At 8-years-old, Jane too epitomizes this unpredictable “good-stuff” dynamic. We just never know how things will go with her. Camping, sure she’ll be independent, set up and sleep in a tent alone. But hiking to get there, she once threw such a fit at the start of the trailhead that she actually gave herself a spontaneous nosebleed causing other day-hikers to give our family a very wide berth as we encouraged and cajoled her into the backcountry leaving a trail of nose blood along the way.

Perhaps more than any other summer adventure, our canoe camping trip to the Emerald Bay boat-in campground symbolized this embrace of spontaneity and willingness to accept some risk.

 “Oh man. This crossing is going to be rough,” Uncle Jon said from the back of his canoe as we watched the steady stream of boats crossing the mouth of Emerald Bay.

“We’ve made it this far.” I said.

Despite Wifey’s wave-PTSD, the canoes were more stable than our sea kayaks and the boat wakes weren’t as massive as Pacific Ocean swells. We made the crossing in one piece.

In the morning we cooked breakfast on our Jetboil on Fannette Island and spread some of Pat Mitchell’s ashes entrusted to us by his widow and our neighbor and friend, Diane Mitchell. A lifelong sailor and adventurer, Pat would have laughed at our mishaps and escapades. And I’m sure he’d agree with Wifey, “that’s the good stuff.”

I usually don’t wade too deep into local politics, but I’d like to acknowledge Rebecca Bryson and the Tahoe Home Connection for their work on real solutions to the local housing shortage. Creativity and willingness to do something go a long way, thank you. I’d also like to say that as the new TMN editor, Heather has made some very good choices by embracing dialogue and discord instead suppressing speech. It’s not always comfortable, but especially in today’s polarized times, we need brave and disparate voices and forums willing to encourage that constitutionally-protected expression.

Hiking the Rim Trail at 75 - Fall 2019

                “What’s the most you’ve ever hiked in a day, Dad?”

                “Oh… I don’t know.” Dad mused over his slightly smushed Subway sandwich. “We did some long days when you were a kid, but really nothing like this.” 

                “Seriously, when was the last time, in a single day you put one foot in front of the other for over 20 miles?”

                “Well, there was that time I jogged home from Wilmington.” My father stared out over the undulating double-lake-vista of Marlette and Tahoe shimmering in the mid-day sun. 

                “Oh yeah.” I said, “I’ve heard this story before; that was in high school, right?”

                “Yup. It was about 20 miles.”

                “So today is it, then.” I beamed. “The longest single-day hike of your life. Completed when you are about to turn 75 years old.”

                “That’s assuming I make it.”

                “Fair point.”

                My father did make it that day, 24 miles from Mt. Rose Pass to Spooner Summit, just like he made it through each of the other 8 sections to complete all 175 miles of the Tahoe Rim Trail, the full circumnavigation. Pretty darn epic for an old dude. 

                Some parts of the trail, he knocked out this season in section hikes and overnights, others he completed years ago with The Tahoe Rim Trail Association and on earlier multi-day adventures with family. All the while, he tracked his progress on a waterproof foldable map, highlighting sections completed and plotting the next adventure. 

                On some of the final hikes, Michael, my 9-year-old son came along entertaining us with his silly antics and moderating our political debates.

                “Dad, do you want a pine nut?” Michael asked.

                “Sure thing.” I said while starting to chew. “I didn’t know you brought these.”

                “I didn’t.”

                “Did Poppy?”

                “No.”

                “Where did you get them then?”

                “The ground.”

The Rim Trail experience was really good for Michael as well. He even started highlighting his own map just like his Poppy.

“Hey Michael, tell me the best part about hiking on the Rim Trail.”

“Ummm… Well, the best part was definitely when Poppy and I got lost.”

“Really, you mean when I had to back track to find you on another trail.” I laughed. “I guess that’s why they call it ‘Desolation Wilderness.’ That was your favorite?”

 “Un-hunh, but now we have a better communication thingy.”

“Communication thingy?” I asked.

“Yeah, the arrows and messages in the trail, like ‘Hey you, go this way.’

 “I guess that was kind of fun.”

“Yeah. I even got to use my compass when we were really lost.”

“Very true.”

                Having Michael along for our adventures certainly helped the miles go by, he was also a tangible reminder to my dad off how important it was for him to see this goal to its fruition.

                Old age is not an abstraction for my parents, it manifests itself in Mom’s recent hip replacement, my father’s waning eyesight, and the ailments plaguing many of their contemporaries.  Perhaps because of this, they seem to forge ahead with an exuberance bordering on childlike-abandon into projects and escapades.

                That’s awesome. I’m proud of them. And glad that I’m able to help support some of their efforts in whatever small way that I can.

When I was younger, I rebelled against so much of what my parents tried to teach me. I chose a profession in the public sector, I went far away to college, and I carved out a philosophical and political identity for myself in stark contrast to theirs.

Now that I’m a bit older, in some ways I think we’ve met in the middle. Not when it comes to politics, but certainly about the value of connecting with the natural world and getting out into that world pushing boundaries and setting idealistic goals, like hiking the whole damn Tahoe Rim Trail. Way to go, Dad! 

Naegleria Fowleri - Summer 2019

                I’m an idiot. The sign read: “Warning, do not allow water to enter your nose. Naegleria Fowleri, an amoeba common to thermal pools may enter causing a rare infection and death.”

                Not that I looked at the sign. Not that I’ve ever looked at the sign. I usually roll into the Keough Hot Springs, South of Bishop, late at night and jump right in. 

Fortunately, my family is infinitely smarter than I am.

                “Dad, what are you doing?” Michael says.

                “Blowing my nose underwater,” I smile back at him. “Kinda gross, hunh?”

                “The sign says not to do that.”

                “Really?”

                “Yeah.” Michael raises his adorable eyebrows to emphasize the point. “Don’t let water enter your nose. You could die.”

                A week later I’m analyzing any feeling in my body just to see if I might have one of the symptoms.

                “It was headache, fever, stiff neck, loss of appetite, vomiting, altered mental state, then eventually seizures and coma. Is that right?” I ask.

                “What is it? What do you feel?” Wifey asks.

                “Just a little headache. And I took Jane climbing yesterday so I’m a bit stiff.”

                “This 15-day waiting period can’t end soon enough.”

                There’s a treatment but diagnosing the disease can take weeks and according to the CDC, these “free-living amoeba” infections are low incidence but high impact, meaning quite rare, but deadly. And I’ve been swimming in natural hot springs for years without a 2nd thought to Naegleria Fowleri. The Mayo clinic says that millions of people are exposed to the amoeba every year, but only a handful get sick.

                I still feel like an idiot for doing the exact thing that the sign said not to do.

                The one benefit of this fixation on my mortality has been the crystallization of priorities for me, like time with my family.

                “Dad, your voices for Harry Potter are really good tonight.”

                “Thanks, Michael.”

It helps that we took the holiday week to go rock climbing and backpacking in the Eastern Sierra. It was awesome, hiking and camping and playing in lakes and streams full of frozen snow melt. Michael got a new multi-day backpack and Jane bought an ultra-light camping chair. Wifey overpacked big time.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have brought those 2 hammocks, a bottle of wine, and ukelele. And I don’t know about these boots from the thrift shop.” Wifey looks down at her feet. “It was fine going uphill, but back down; ouch.”

We hoofed it into the mountains north of Bishop until we hit snow and camped out for two nights, playing cards, reading books, and goofing off. After roughing it for 3 days, we ended up in Mammoth for mountain biking and skiing on the 4th of July. It was an amazing trip with lots of adventures and laughter.

                “So, if that’s it for me, I can’t think of a better way to have spent my last week here on earth.”  I smile and tell Wifey.

                “Stop it.” Wifey says and hits me.

                “So, what do you think of the column so far?” I ask.

                “It’s a little morbid and sucky,” Wifey says. “You know… it’s just kinda sad. People will be like, ‘How depressing.’”

                “Yeah,” I agree. “So much for Tahoe Dad.”

                “Stop saying that. It’s rare.” Wifey says. “Maybe more fun anecdotes in the column, like Jane’s meltdown over the non-ham hamburger.”  

                “Yeah, I wanted ham in my hamburger!” Jane yells a little too loud over my shoulder.

                “Tough lesson, but a good one to learn.” I agree. “Kind of like swimming with brain-eating amoeba.”

                “You could also talk about how we were a train wreck at the airport last month.” Wifey ignores my last death reference.

                “That’s right,” I say. “United’s ‘basic economy’ no carry-on thing. We were a total scene.”

                “Daddy tried to throw his ukulele in the trash can,” Jane laughs.

                “Hey, they weren’t leaving me much choice.” I shake my head. “And you ruined your spray tan by crying over your big tub of confiscated face cream.”

                “That mean man!” Jane says.

                “There was also the cactus incident,” I say. “You remember that, Jane?”

                “Yeah, don’t sit on them.”

                “That’s right, Kiddo.”  

                The fun we’ve had over the past month feels sweeter than it would have. Wifey had a 40th birthday dance party in our new home. Jane overcame some mental mountain-biking obstacles and is tearing it up on the trail. Michael literally carried his own tent, pad, sleeping bag, water, clothing, and entertainment on our backpacking trip. And all those milestones feel somehow brighter and more vivid to me with the nagging possibility of death by amoeba lurking over my shoulder. It’s so weird.

                In another week, when I haven’t expired yet, I still want to read Harry Potter to Michael with the same enthusiasm and sprint uphill next to Jane’s mountain bike to ensure that she doesn’t quit, and dance with Wifey whenever she wants. Living with the thought of death is somehow fuller than without.

We Did It - Construction Column #5 - Spring 2019

“Daddy, can we have friends over now or is our house still too dangerous?” Jane, our 7-year-old asks.

“It’s totally safe,” Michael argues. “It’s been like a month since I got a splinter.”

“Wait a minute,” Wifey interjects. “When are we going to stop walking past that chop saw on the way to the bathroom?”

“OK, OK, it’s time for friends again. I’ll hide my tools,” I respond. “Promise.”

It’s funny when it comes to your house. There is no definitive “finish line” and I’ll still be tinkering with odds and ends for years to come, but it’s basically over. We are safe for public consumption, birthday parties, and a return to some degree of normalcy. We did it.

We’ve passed our final inspection. Our home is officially built and we are enjoying those spaces that we’ve been dreaming about for so many years.

Admittedly, there were times over the past year of construction, when I doubted the sanity of the gargantuan project we undertook. Now that we’ve arrived at our destination however, those unpleasant memories of breathing in wood dust, of frozen mornings and metal tools, of insulation fibers in my forearms and blood blisters on my fingers from my poor hammer aim, of snow on our living room floor and water leaking through tarps and into our ceilings; now all of that aggravation and pain feel worth it.

Now, we have a finished thing that we can love for the rest of our lives.

Now, we have a place that is truly and uniquely ours. As our primary general contractor, Josh Bruner, without whom none of this would have been possible, told me on more than one occasion, “Your DNA is all over this place.”

Yeah, it is. Our family and friends helped everywhere and with everything. Our DNA is apparent in the stain handprints from our kids, purposefully sealed onto our siding. You can see it in little imperfections like the few bubbles in the epoxy fill on our crazy wine cork backsplash or the symmetry of the grout lines in the kiddos bathroom where Jane really took charge of the tile job.

“You’re really getting good at this, Jane.” I tell her.

“I like tiling. It’s like a puzzle, but you get to cut the pieces,” Jane looks at me with wide eyes as she blindly smushes another liner piece into the wall mortar.

“Beautiful,” I smile back at her.

The general feedback on our new home is overwhelmingly positive. People appreciate how different it is. Our neighbors dubbed it “The Half Dome House” which we kind of like and have been encouraging. But many who look at what we’ve created aren’t quite sure how to categorize it.

One of Wifey’s more ornery students said, “Oh, that’s your house.  Why the different colors and metal siding up high? It looks like your ran out of wood and put your fence on your roof.”

Another visitor, when he saw some of our fun interior modifications in the kids’ rooms and swing at the kitchen booth said, “I get it. So, you obviously don’t care about resale value.”

Even one building department inspector walked around during a framing inspection and looked at how we organized bedrooms and said “Man, this is one cut-up floor plan.”

I love these head-scratching observations and half-criticism, because I see them as an indication that we’ve done something right. Rather than allowing conventional wisdom and building norms to dictate our choices, we designed and built what we really honestly wanted.

It’s weird, but so are we.

And building all that weirdness was easy with Meeks. Before this project, I would hear contractors and neighbors lament about Meeks: the pricing, the lack of selection, and the quality of wood in the yard. But honestly, we don’t know how good we’ve got it. 

Meeks is amazing. When compared to doing the grocery-cart shuffle at the big orange or blue box (Home Depot or Lowes), Meeks kicks tail every day. Being able to drive into the yard, wave over at Doug on the forklift, and have him raise material for me to drop on my lumber rack probably saved at least 40 hours over the course of the project. And their pricing is spot on. I shopped out numerous items and found Meeks to be the same or even better on bulk purchases. Dave in the office literally took apart and fixed my tool gun right in front of me and every single person in there from Jimmy in the yard to Jose in Contractor Sales is actually knowledgeable about construction and even friendly when you have questions. I challenge you to try to find those two characteristics in any employee at Home Depot.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t also say that Scotty’s True Value at the Y saved my butt many times at odd hours and with odd requests like how to hook up German plumbing fixtures. Roy with Azul Electric put up with all of our strange lighting locations and reused fixtures. Riley Plumbing and Tino Lomeli with Floor Coverings International were also instrumental in our project’s success. Sierra Sustainable Builders helped with much needed knowledge and recycled material. Fergusson Plumbing and South Y Fireplace were able to source and diagnose some of the more peculiar items we needed. The South Tahoe Refuse and Recycling Center has been awesome. And so many friends and neighbors stopped by to help. We even were able to borrow a paint sprayer from Blue Granite Climbing Gym, when Giana and Brad Leavers saw Wifey covered in paint and looking totally beat after a day of rolling out the garage. We really feel lucky as a family and grateful to everyone who contributed to our project.

“That was quite a party,” Wifey exclaims while collapsing on the couch. “I almost forgot what 20 kids running around and shrieking with joy sounds like.”

“The house did well.” I respond. “The climbing wall was a hit.”

“Totally.”

“When is the next party?” Jane interjects herself into our conversation.

“Soon,” I respond. “I think we’ll be having people over more often.”

“Yeah,” Michael comes in. “The nail guns were fun, but I’m glad all the scary saws are locked up.”

“Me too, Buddy.”

The “Home” Stretch - Construction Column #4 November 2018

            It’s starting to feel more normal. So, normal that I’m actually able to sit down and write a column for a change, my apologies for the hiatus. The house addition is nearing the ‘home stretch.’ We finally have a kitchen sink, which I installed just hours before we threw a surprise 70th birthday party for my mom with rental tables and chairs and catering by Tacos Por Favor. It was more like a “Surprise-we-have-a-sink-and-it’s-kinda-sorta-habitable party.”

            “So what is your expected date of completion?” Is a question that Wifey and I get asked all the time.

            Wifey cringes and says, “Meh, a couple months,” something she’s been saying for the past couple months.

            I usually respond with some version of “Well, that kind of depends on your definition of completion.” Which is true. There are fun elements of our house on which I want to take my time and get exactly right, like cubbies in the mud room or some of the eccentricities we have planned for kids’ bedrooms.

            Our kiddos, Michael and Jane love the house too, especially that we carpeted over some of the old chalet roof decking inside one of the rooms. The result, in their words, is a “slide,” which they have found every conceivable way of entering and exiting.

            “Watch this, Dad. I call this this one ‘The Race Car 360!” Michael, our 8-year-old says before catapulting himself backwards into what is essentially an awkward space where two roof lines (old and new) meet that doesn’t really have another use; so it might as well be fun for our kids.

            Before our addition, we could describe our home correctly as “the little chalet at the end of the street,” now… not so much. One of our neighbors called it “The Half Dome House.” Which is cool, but definitely triggers some self-consciousness. It’s true that we’ve built what can rightly be described as a “big” house, but we did so with lots of sweat equity and frugality. I salvaged old material from the demo stage, pulled nails and reused boards to the chagrin of carpenters; I’ve even been reinstalling our beat-up bamboo flooring as finish trim in a few places. This stubborn penny-pinching isn’t just to save money; I like the character and feel of repurposed material.

            “Where did that massive window sill come from?” One of my mom’s party attendees asked.

            “It’s one of our old 4x12” roof beams.” I responded. “It looks kind of fun, right?”

            “I guess so.”

            Family life has gone on outside of our construction odyssey as well. Over the course of the summer, Jane lost a crazy combination of teeth leaving a smile that made a few adults wince. One tooth fell out while swimming in her cousin’s pool. The ensuing treasure dive for her tooth definitely made our kids better underwater swimmers and occupied them for a long time, but to no avail: no sunken tooth treasure was recovered. 

            Jane decided to write a note and draw a picture to the tooth fairy explaining the whole sad swimming situation in hopes that she could still get some money out of the deal.

            In the morning, she ran up to Wifey saying, “Mommy, Mommy! Guess what?”

            “What’s that Jane?”

            “I tricked the Tooth Fairy!”

            “How did you do that?”

            “I put a little glue on the picture right where my tooth was and the Tooth Fairy took it!”

            “Very clever, Kiddo.”

            Doing a remodel/addition as massive as this really brings everything into focus and I’m grateful for that new perspective. True non-construction-related time with my children has become essential to my equilibrium. Just going for a bike ride or to the climbing gym or reading “Call of the Wild” which Michael brought home from school, makes the pace I’ve been keeping possible.  

            Friendship also has been brought into greater clarity for me. Having friends tackle certain projects at my house has been wonderful and I feel so grateful for their contributions even if it was just a few hours of painting or being an extra set of hands when handling a heavy window or appliance. Or lending me a commercial sprayer or scaffolding. I’m really in debt to so many incredible local folks.

            “We’ve been thinking about adding onto our home. It’s been great to watch your progress.” We get innumerable comments like these from neighbors and passers-by. I’m not always sure how to respond. There have been times that I regretted doing this project at all, the proverbial toll on my personal, professional, and family life has been significant. But looking across our half-finished kitchen, with plywood counters, finished cabinets, raw electric boxes, and working stovetop, it’s worth it. To have the home that you’ve been saving for and dreaming about for years, does feel amazing. 

            So, go ahead and pull the trigger: do that remodel, but don’t be afraid of cutting some corners, leaning on friends and family, and putting in sweat equity: pull nails, reuse material, and be creative in your thriftiness. But have competent and reliable partners who can get you to the finish line. There is no way I could have done my project without Brunner Building, Azul Electric, Riley Plumbing, Sierra Sustainable Builders, and lots of friends and even a hitch-hiker from Dusseldorf—yup. On a business trip, I picked up a kid with a new-looking backpack in Berkeley in order to use the H.O.V. lane and he ended up visiting and working a few days at our house.

Before the Snow Flies - Construction Column #3 August 2018

            The construction saga continues. The project is looking great, with lots of neighborhood gawker admiration, but man, I’m whooped.

            Wifey and the kiddos ditched me for New York to visit grandparents during July. While they were vacationing, I was left with 2 responsibilities: First, building our house. Second, being the sole source of companionship for Buddha, our cat. 

            At the first job, I’m doing pretty good, we’re under roof, out of framing and into the phase of the project where myriad subcontractors parade through our home drilling holes and listening to Vicente Fernandez, which I’m starting to really enjoy.

            At the second job, I’m kind of failing. When I’m actually in town, I’m swinging a hammer and lifting heavy objects from dawn until dusk and away from our trailer where Buddha lives. When I return, Buddha never leaves my side, especially at night, when I roll over and get a surprise face-full of cat.

            Fortunately for Buddha, our family returned in early August and hasn’t put her down since.

            The kids are pretty excited about the house too.

            “Wow, is this my room?” Michael asks as he runs around it in circles like a hamster.

            “Yes, it is…” I respond. “Do you like it?”

            “Yeah! Can I have a slide over here and a fireman’s pole and a…”

            “Hold on, Buddy. Let’s just start with drywall.”

            “I don’t need drywall. My walls are dry.”

            “Trust me on this one, Kiddo.”

            It’s been great to have my family back in town. I love taking Jane, my 7-year-old daughter, to the hardware store with me, where she helped load lumber, or having the kids help clean up the construction site, or just hangout around the campfire.

            “I think, more than I want to finish our new house, I just want out of this damn campground.” I tell Wifey over a drink one night.

            “Really?” 

            “Yeah, I’m totally trailered out.”

            “What do you mean ‘trailered out’? It’s fun here!”

            “You’ve been gone for a month. I’ve been enjoying nightly sessions of campground karaoke, traveling high school orchestras, and loud movie nights. I feel surrounded by ginormous RV palaces and nosy neighbors in extreme proximity. I’m done with this.” I gesture to the dog-washing station our most recent neighbor set up right next to us for her 5 miniature poodles. 

            “Valid point,” Wifey concedes.

            “I think we need to think about selling and getting out of here.”

            “What do you mean… you’re selling the trailer?” said Jane, devastated.

            “I just earned a free ice cream for hiding the golden horseshoe!” added Michael.

            Both kids burst into tears.

            “Guys, you knew we weren’t keeping the trailer. And aren’t you excited about our new home?”

            They nod and wipe away tears.

            Our kiddos aren’t the only ones jazzed about our expanding home.

            Neighbors and visiting tourists all do the slow roll by our project and sometimes stop to comment on the magnitude of the work, saying some version of, ‘that’s a lot of house.’

            Yeah, I guess it is.

            Walking around our new digs, it certainly feels bigger and more ambitious than it did when I was sketching lines on paper. 

            In all honesty, we are trying to get away with something here. We’re using my sweat equity and questionable carpentry skills as a way to get more house for less money. It’s really that simple. 

            I’m also calling on favors from friends that I’ve helped with their projects over the years. The subtext to my frequent Facebook and text message mayday calls is... “Hey Buddy, remember that fill in the blank project that I helped you with, well this weekend we’re building, fill in another blank...” And for the most part it has worked really well. We’ve even got parts of our house that we’ve named after those people that helped make them, “oh that’s David’s Arch” or “Monique’s Pantry,” which is kind of fun. 

            In addition to help from friends, we owe a big thank you to Riley Plumbing, Azul Electric, Bruner Building, and John M Edgar Construction; they’ve all been amazing. I’m also still blown away by how helpful and informative Meeks has been. Austin and Parry and Doug and Victor, and Jen and Jessica and Jimmie and Chris and Dave and everyone there that I’m forgetting. It’s impressive how knowledgeable and ready to lend a hand everyone is. It sure beats the Home Depot shopping carts, long lines, and inexperienced staff, like Wifey’s grandfather who during retirement worked for the Home Depot paint department, but was color blind. His favorite story was that people would ask him how a particular color or pairing looked and he would always say, ‘beautiful.’

Construction Log #2 - Star Date 5.15.18

            When you purchase a home, you agonize and research the decision for months, comparing neighborhoods, square footages, and lots of variables before writing one very large check. When you build an addition on your home, it feels more like speeding down the highway with a truck bed full of cash and watching it cyclone away from your tailgate. 

            I did my homework and had a really good idea of how much things would cost and I’m not surprised by any of the expenditures. I’m just a little delirious at the pace.

            We’re framing now and walls are going up with the speed of weeds in an overwatered garden. It’s exciting to see our pencil and paper vision finally become a 3-dimensional reality.  Since I pulled the permit as an Owner-Builder, so much more falls on my shoulders. It’s me that makes sure we have a functional bathroom and electrical wires out of the way. It’s me that runs to Meeks for missing hardware, cleans up and preps work areas until midnight, buys lunch for hungry crews, and meets with all the various subcontractors. Oh… and it’s definitely still me that tries to run my normal job out of an improvised “office” space in one of the few rooms left in the house not completely demolished. But I am having a good time. My favorite moment thus far was setting a 6x12” beam off of my truck’s lumber rack.

            I still try to have Michael and Jane involved in our project. I organized a contest picking up nails with a retractable magnet, and had the kids put their handprints and names in a corner of the new garage slab. I use them to help with some of the safer demo, but kids will be kids and when you give them tools, well…

            “Michael, what is the purpose of construction fencing?” I ask.

            “So everyone knows we’re breaking stuff,” he responds.

            I shake my head to calm my nerves and try again. “No, Buddy. Construction fencing is a barrier to separate what we are building from the surrounding areas. Why is a barrier necessary?”  

            “So people don’t come into our construction.”

            “It’s actually the opposite. We need to keep our construction material and all of the walking we do off other areas that aren’t under construction so that we don’t damage them.”

            “Like the grass and the trees?” Michael asks.

            “Exactly. We don’t want to trample the grass or hurt the trees.”

            “Oh.”

            “So do you see why cutting lots of holes in our construction fence with scissors was a bad idea?”

            “Ok, Dad. I won’t do it again.”

            “Good. Now here’s some lengths of twine and some more fencing and the same pair of shears. Fix all the holes you made.”

            “Da—Ad.”

            “Now.”

            The vagabond-family juggling act continues for us too. When we get invited to friends’ houses for dinner, we show up with a bottle of wine, smile really big, and then ask if we can shower our kids and wash all our laundry.

            My mom felt bad for us and transferred a timeshare week to a local Tahoe resort. We enjoyed their 85-degree pool, taco and margarita night, and took advantage of their many amenities, just like a good tourist would. Jane explained our ‘staycation’ to her teacher as “Now we live in a hotel, but we go back to our trailer next week.”

            With the warming weather, the trailer has been much more enjoyable. We’ve set up a slackline and large tent for kid toys. We cook out on the grill and have friends over for s’mores. When they’re outside, we also don’t have to worry so much about the kids pushing any potentially disastrous buttons inside the trailer. Apparently, there’s this “button” we were warned about from the previous owners…it’s the “pop-out” button that collapses the trailer into itself.

            “Kids don’t touch any buttons, at all,” Wifey instructs.

            “Why not?” Jane asks.

            “One of them blows us up the trailer.”

            “Which one?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            We wouldn’t be as far along as we are without the consul and “borrowed brains” of many amazing locals. First and foremost, Josh Bruner is a genius when it comes to putting a complex house together. Jose and the crew at Meeks has been incredibly knowledgeable and seem to like it when I bring kids along for late afternoon material runs and to find their ‘secret soda machine.’ The City of South Lake Tahoe Building Department continues to be helpful and available. Alpine Metals, Caro Construction, Randy Vogelsang, Sierra Sustainable Builders, and Fall Engineering all have helped keep me on track and saved me time and money. Thanks, everyone.

Construction Log#1 - Apirl 2018

We are in deep now.

Bamboo and subfloor up, trusses off and garage demoed—deep.

Kiddos, Wifey, and I crammed into a 26’ trailer during the weekdays—deep.

Nocturnal cat deciding to explore that trailer at 3AM—deep.

Which is, of course, why I’m writing this construction log in the wee hours.

Ever since Wifey and I moved into our little chalet in late 2007, we’ve dreamt of remodeling and adding on. We’ve been sketching ideas, clipping magazines, printing images, and comparing kitchen layouts for the past decade. So this is the year, 2018, that we finally do it. And, oh man, right now with the roof off our living room staring up into a sky that will soon harbor an ‘atmospheric river,’ it’s a bit terrifying.

The kids have been surprisingly accommodating during the whole process. Michael, our 8-year-old, seems particularly fond of demolition.

“How much is Dad paying you for taking down the hearth?” Wifey asks.

Michael’s smile is almost as big as his construction headphones and safety goggles, “$5 per hour.”

                “And how much do you earn if you get hurt?”

                “Nothing,” Michael nods earnestly and then goes back to swinging a hammer and prying faux rock loose with a flat bar.

                So far we have managed to avoid injuries, even with giant holes in the floor that Jane and Michael like to straddle as an ‘obstacle course.’

                “Don’t fall in a hole, Kids!” Wifey says on a daily basis.

                We basically have one rule: no running. Which is incredibly hard to do if you’re an 8 or 6-year-old, but after some minor knee scraps everyone is on board with the no-running-through-the-construction-minefield situation.

                Life condensed to 26 feet is pretty instructive too. I’ve always been opposed to the whole RV scene, but now that I’ve spent a week in one, the simplicity of it is eye-opening. Certain habits are pleasantly unavoidable: shoes off at the door, dishes washed immediately, toys at a minimum, play happens outside, etc… It’s kind of refreshing. 

Jane looks around our sparse kitchen with a puzzled look on her face and then asks, “Mommy, where’s the dishwasher?”

“You’re looking at her, Kid.”

There certainly are lots of challenges though. Wifey learned right away that the hot water tank in the trailer only lasts for about 4 minutes of showering. That was brutal. Shortly after the frigid wake up, Wifey had a further discover: hair-dryers aren’t compatible with trailer electrical capacities.

                “Mommy!” Jane screams. “You broke the trailer.”

                “I know,” Wifey shakes her wet hair everywhere. “Short showers and cold hair. I think I want to cry.”

                “I’ll find the breaker.” I say. “It’s all good…maybe?”

                For the next what I hope will only be 6 or so columns, I will write a ‘Construction Log’ as a way to chronicle our progress and various misadventures.

                At this point we’ve completed the majority of the demo and are getting ready for piers and foundations. Because our work is within the existing perimeter of our home, we can jumpstart the May 1st dig deadline, but need to be extra careful about dirt so that we keep it within the site and if possible within the building footprint itself. The Building Department at the City of South Lake Tahoe, I have to say, has been really great. It can be challenging to follow all of the required protocols, but the personnel at the city have been consistently available, knowledgeable, and responsive when it comes to interpreting those protocols. The other big thank you so far is to K&K services. Kenny’s crew vastly exceeded my expectations and timeline for the demolition portion of the work. 

                I decided to pull the permit for our project as an ‘Owner/Builder,’ which might be a mistake, as I generally know enough about each trade to be dangerous. But so far, I’ve managed to move a few electric lines and it only took me 3 trips to Scotty’s to reroute some copper pipe out of the way of the new piers going under my house, so I’ll take that as a success. Now, if I could only get Jane to watch where she steps when walking around our house.

                “Daddy, what is that thingy sticking up?” She asks after catching herself from falling.

                “It’s an old J-bolt that connected the concrete wall to a sole plate,” I respond.

                “Well it’s mean… and dumb… and ouchy.”

                “We’ll get rid of it soon.”

                “Good.”

Screen Time vs. Real Time - May 2019

“What’s this, Michael?” I look over my 9-year-old’s shoulder at the screen of the chromebook that his school recently issued.

                “It’s my email,” he proudly responds.

                “Really?” I raise my eyebrows and lean in. “What are you emailing?”

                “Stuff.”

                “Let’s see some of this ‘stuff.’”

                I start to scroll through a few of my son’s online exchanges. There were some innocuous “Hellos” and a “What’s Up?” but as I clicked my way through his brief email history, I noticed something else.

                “What’s going on with this conversation here about a missing toy?”

                “Ugh...” Michael isn’t sure how to respond.

                “And, wait a minute,” I scroll a little deeper. “This isn’t good, Buddy. This is cyber-bullying.”  I notice an exchange with another boy in his grade that involves misspelled curse words and insults. “I’m taking this right now.” I pick up Michael’s chromebook. “This is not right. I need to see your teacher.”

                “Dad!” Michael starts to protest and then changes his mind when he sees my expression.

                It’s hard to believe this is already our reality with a son only in 3rd grade.

                I do think that technology can have a place in education as a tool to be used in specific increments. And to be fair to LTUSD, the curriculum at school has certainly been good in terms of cautiously getting kids to learn to research, to code, and to type, but as a parent I draw a bright and firm line at unsupervised online interactions between kids.

                Google solicits educational institutions and school districts with enticing tools, like Google Docs, Google Sites, Google Hangouts, Google Drive, and yes, Gmail, all for free with up to 1 Terabyte of data storage per student as part of their push to accumulate users early and break up Apple’s dominance in the education market.

So much for their old slogan: “Don’t be Evil.”

                And then there’s “Seesaw” which is basically a Facebook-style platform that allows teachers as well as students to post what goes on in the classroom and parents on a supposedly secure platform to see it and “like” it. Ostensibly, this is great, as it gives parents a window into the classroom, but it too is fraught with peril. There are the privacy concerns associated with posting pictures and then there is the online-approval training that this app is cultivating. Jane, our 7-year-old in 2nd grade has come home from school demanding that we watch and then “like” some video that her teacher took of her at school. 

Wifey and I are not okay with any of this.

In an article last year in “The Guardian,” Eliane Glaser wrote, “And not only is screen technology harmful to children…, there is little evidence that it helps them learn. A 2016 OECD report found that the impact of computers on pupil performance was ‘mixed at best,’ and in most cases computers were ‘hurting learning.’”

My concern with the technology in the classroom is really less about how it inhibits academic performance and more about the long term effects on my children’s health and well-being. The American Academy of Pediatrics recognizes that screen time of any sort, no matter how purportedly educational, provokes eye strain and bad posture. It’s also the opposite of active, healthy, physical play, which kids so desperately need in order to combat a whole range of expanding childhood medical problems, like obesity, sleep-deprivation, and according to numerous medical studies, grey matter atrophy. “Shrinkage or loss of tissue volume in… the important frontal lobe, which governs executive functions, such as planning, prioritizing, organizing, and impulse control.”  A study in the European Journal of Radiology, went on to say that too much screen time caused “damage to… the insula, which is involved in our capacity to develop empathy and compassion for others.”

We parents are unwittingly reprogramming our children’s neural chemistry with different dopamine pathways that fire based not on shared real and tactile experiences and friendships, but based on superficial virtual interactions. This is in no way healthy development.   

It’s no wonder that Bill Gates kept cellphones from his kids until high school, Steve Jobs wouldn’t give his children iPads, and one of Zuckerberg’s assistants, Athena Chavarria, said in a New York Times piece, “‘I am convinced that the devil lives in our phones and is wreaking havoc on our children.’”

                “Michael, I’ve got a bunch of work to do, but I’m taking you to school today and we’re going to talk with your teacher about your emails and your use of this chromebook.”

                “Okay, Dad.”

                After some conversations at school, we got his email account disabled and so I’ll consider that a small victory in the great Luddite battle against the omnipotent technological tide.

                More importantly, for our little family we’ve been pushing lots of low-tech-high-concentration activities at home.

                “Mom, not another puzzle,” Michael complains.

                “Oh come on, Kiddo.” Wifey says, “This one is really pretty. Check out the beach.”

                Michael peeks at the box and then sits down.

                We also are combating technology by making sure that the clearest dopamine triggers for our kids are authentic experiences, preferably outside, and with friends and family. We’re lucky to live in Tahoe and have access to clean air, water, and scenery that beats the snot out of screen-time any day. 

Gunbarrel 25 as a Family - April 2019

                “I think Michael wants to do Gunbarrel 25 this year,” I tell Wifey one evening about a month ago.  

                “Really?”

                “He has some friends from school that are already entered.”

                “I don’t know.” Wifey cringes. “It sounds kind-a brutal.”

                “It is an important tradition here in town.”

                “Some towns have harvest festivals, we have mass athletic masochism.”

                “Exactly.”

                “So does that mean we’re doing it?” Michael enters the room.

                Wifey and I look at each other and exchange dopey shrugs of parental acquiescence.  

                “Why not?” Wifey says.

                So on the last Saturday in March, along with another 196 other competitors, our little family of 4, safety-pinned our race trackers and numbers to our outfits and raced onto Gunbarrel Chair.

                For those that haven’t skied it, Gunbarrel, according to Powder Magazine is, “a 1,600-vertical foot run of the deepest moguls in Lake Tahoe.” GB25 is an event/competition to ski that same slope as many times as possible in one 6-hour period. The record I think is 53 laps. 

All the crazy outfits on the slopes made it fun too. Wifey wore a dragon costume, Jane a princess dress, and Michael and I went with Hawaiian shirts and leis. Our favorite costume in the competition that day was definitely the guy in a full business suit, with a briefcase full of beer, navigating the bumps on snow blades.  He stayed in character the whole time too. After one particularly brutal face plant, I called down some encouragement to him from the chair, “You can do it buddy, the office needs you.”

Without missing a beat, he looked up and said, “I gotta get back to work. I’m saving up for a minivan.”

“You got it, man. Go get that minivan.”

“I’ve always wanted a minivan.” He stood up, dusted the snow from his helmet and said, “See you at the water cooler.”

                The best part of the day was certainly this sort of comradery with the other racers; that sense of community built around collective suffering. Every time you’d sit down on the chair, you’d be with someone new swapping stories and just laughing at the absurdity of it all.

                “Did you see the lift-ops turn those tourists away?” I asked.

                “Yeah, that was pretty cool.” My fellow rider commented. “They actually asked if the chair could be slowed down, didn’t they?”

                “I think so.”

                “They’re running the chair above normal speed today, by like 18 or 20%.”

                “Funny,” I laughed. “I thought I wasn’t getting enough of a break each time.”

                “Yeah. No kidding.”  

Even with all the people and the added speed and adrenaline, I was blown away by how safe the event was. Most incidents and injuries on the slopes happen because someone is in over their head. Moving too quickly or launching some jump that was way out of their league. In this case, there were no neophytes. The mere idea of GB25 is kind of self-selecting. Sure, the water and food gauntlet at the base got a little crowded and rushed. And sure, there were some bumps and minor collisions, but by in large everyone was courteous, safe, and just out to have a good time. Well that might be a stretch—they were just out to survive the day.

My favorite laps were definitely with my kids. We split up so that we could each hit our goals for the day, and they could go into the lodge for sandwiches and cookies from Grandmom. But we’d meet each other at the bottom or along the run and ski a bit together.

“Oh, you brought me some of Grandmom’s cookies.”

“Here you go, Daddy.” Jane hands over some much-needed sustenance while we rode up the chair together.

“Are you having a good time, Kiddo?”

“The cowboy is funny,” she says. “And Wonder Woman. That’s cool.”

“It sure is.” I say. “How many laps are you on?”

“I think I’m at like at least, you know… 60.”

“Impressive. I’ve been out the whole time and I’m only at 20 so far.”

Around 2 in the afternoon, Grandmom took the kiddos to a birthday party at the ice skating rink and Wifey and I wrapped up our GB25 odyssey by hitting our personal goals for the day. I must admit that I did cry just a little when I took my ski boots off and I don’t think my middle toe on my left foot will ever be the same.

With the kiddos occupied, Wifey and I stopped for a celebratory date at Blue Angel Cafe. We had some fries and drinks and discussed how the kids were so independent and didn’t even crash or get hurt. As if on cue, Wifey felt a sudden and forceful sneeze coming on. With very little time until launch, she angled her head away from our food and sneeze-head-butted the chair next to her.

“Ouch! Are you okay?” I ask.

“I think so.” Wifey rubbed her head. “Oh man, I’m gonna have a mark.”

“You can call it a battle scar from GB25.”

Think You’re a Tough Skier? Try it with Kids. - February 2019

It was definitely a proud papa moment. There they were, at 7 and 8 years old, on a pow day queued up alongside burly-bearded gnar-chasers and Tahoe-tough chicks at the base of Mott Canyon.

“Are you sure you guys want to ride the chair without me?” I asked. “It doesn’t slow down.” “Dad, I think we got this.” Michael said.

“Yeah, I didn’t even fall on the way down.” Jane added.

It’s true, we navigated down ‘Widow Maker’ and dropped into the first chute, ‘Snake Eyes’ with barely a wedge turn and only a few initial whimpers from Jane. And I guess they’re right, even though they were the only kids side-sliding into the narrow gauntlet of Mott chair, they’ve got it.

“Sweet,” The snowboarder with a fully encrusted ice beard nodded his approval as Jane and Michael sat down and whooshed away up the hill without the chair slowing down. “Good kids.”

And it’s moments like that, where I think I’m doing a service to humanity. But like most things, when it comes to parenting, this feeling is… oh so fleeting.

Not even an hour later, after a quick snack on the way down to Cal base, everything flipped on its head and I was thankful not to be surrounded by a crowd of powder-chasers for surely their tacit approval would vaporize: we were about as far from ‘sweet’ as we possibly could be.

High above ‘Gunbarrel,’ Michael had zipped ahead and Jane, whose poles I was carrying so that she could make fists in her gloves to generate warmth, lagged behind. Somehow, Michael ended up on skier’s left of the ridge heading toward ‘Round-A-Bout’ and Jane veered to the right onto ‘Hogsback.’ For a moment, both of my kids disappeared.

I definitely lost my cool. Tears were shed, lots of hiking ensued, but ultimately we managed to regroup on the ‘Face’ side of the ridge.

“Michael.” I spoke in my sternest voice. “Under no circumstance what-so-ever, are you to ever lose sight of me. Understand?”

He nodded.

“What is a tree well, Kid?” I asked through clenched teeth.

“Loose snow by a tree,” He mumbled.

“What happens if you go in one?”

“I could die.”

“That’s right,” I fumed. “I need to be able to see where you are at all times.”

“Jane.” I turned toward my daughter.

“Uhh… Yes, Daddy?”

 “Your hands are cold, I’m doing what I can for you and next time, we’ll make sure you have mittens and not gloves, but you can’t throw a fit and just sit down; you can’t. You are too big for me to carry down the hill anymore.”

“Okay, Daddy.”

“We’ll be at Round-A-Bout soon and then we can just cruise on down to the truck, but right now we need to tough it out and ski together. Agreed?”

They sheepishly nodded their heads and we skied down.  

All I can say is that, if you think you’re a gnarly skier or rider, try it with kids.

                About two weeks later, during a particularly potent storm cycle, Wifey and I brought the kids out in another blizzard. Jane had mittens this time and proper layers, but in our rush to meet our friends and their kids, we neglected to check that she had put her neck warmer under her helmet strap instead of over it. Wifey was ahead with three other kiddos and a friend and I was getting Jane and her small skis to Powderbowl chair. We stopped once to unfasten and re-adjust, then moved into the lift line.

                Jane was still being a bit fussy and dragging behind, but making forward progress with my encouragement and occasional pushing assists, when we got run into.

                “Hey Buddy, watch it,” I turned my head and said.

                “Then keep moving, A#!@%-le” was his response.

                This was definitely not what I was expecting from someone who had just run his board over my skis and nearly knocked my daughter over. With my fuse already short from managing Jane’s hysterics, I must admit I lost some of my normal diplomacy.  

                “Don’t you see I’m with my kid, back the F#$! off!” I think was my response and I certainly got in his face to deliver it.

                But then he actually hit me: right hand to left cheek. Well… to be honest it was more of an adorable little slap, but it certainly was physical contact with intent to harm.  

                I’m proud that I didn’t tackle him, because that was the first thought crossing my mind and with a board on his feet, he would have gone down pretty easy.

Instead, something clicked in my brain and I said, “Sweet. Thank you. You just lost your pass.” I turned away, saw that Jane had found Wifey who was drawing attention and getting people to help. I scanned the crowd, looking for any Heavenly jackets. “This guy just hit me, where is Ski Patrol?”

At this point, plenty of other witnesses kept distance between us and moderated with statements like, “It’s a powder day, take it easy.”           

With only lift ops at the base of the chair, I rode up hoping to find Mountain Safety or Ski Patrol at the top. Jane was crying next to us on the lift which made me reevaluate the whole interaction. What are my kids learning right now?

Unfortunately, there were no officials at the top either. I gave a description to the Lift Op, but the jerk was long gone.

This may have been for the best because the rest of the day was amazing. No more cold-kiddo-tantrums. Lots of tree skiing and mini-cliff hucking. We hung out under Powderbowl Chair and dropped any features we could find including the bigger one at the bottom. The kids, all four of them at 12, 10, 8, and 7, took turns throwing themselves again and again off the mini-cliff and being super stoked on their accomplishment.

And I’m proud that they’ll remember that pow day as the day they learned to huck cliffs and not the day that their Dad got into a fist fight in the lift line. 

I can feel my heartrate elevate and blood start to boil even now, days later, as I’m typing this.

Having children with you for adventures elevates and heightens each experience. The joys are so much more rich and fulfilling and the lows seem to tug at your soul.

I wouldn’t have had either of the lift line experiences, the Agro-idiot at Powderbowl or the glow of hard core approval at Mott, without my children there to trigger them.

I also wouldn’t have had the skiing highs and lows, kids learning to huck cliffs or kids learning to stay together in a blizzard, without my children.

It is this technicolor version of reality that we parents inhabit. Everything is more vivid, more beautiful, more painful, more stressful, more joyful, and just more in every sense of the word.

I wouldn’t change it for anything, although a friendlier atmosphere on pow days would be nice.

Skiing Glorious Skiing - December 2018

            Skiing was one of the things that brought Wifey and me across the country to the Tahoe basin over 13 years ago. But with our construction project going on, I wasn’t too psyched on breaking away from finishing our home to make turns with the family.  

            In fact, if I’m going to be honest, skiing has lost its luster. Maybe it was the ACL rupturing, show-off-stunt that I pulled 3 seasons ago, that basically forced me to ski with less of the reckless abandon of my youth. Maybe it was the 5-ring circus reality of skiing with two kids who needed help with gloves and cried when they were cold. Maybe I was finally fed up with the crowded slopes and long lift lines. Maybe I was just over it.

            “Come on,” Wifey said. “We all need this.”

            “We did unearth all the ski gear.” I shrug my shoulders. “Do you think it still fits?”

            “It should, the kids tried everything out and they are super excited.”

            “Alright.”

            So, after a morning of tiling and grouting, we cleared some construction debris out of my truck bed, loaded up the skis and headed for the slopes.

            And…

            It was pure magic.

            No issues.

            Right off the lift and into trees. We took turns blazing a powdery trail and they did it. They really did it.        

            Holy crap, my kids can ski.

            I’ve always scoffed at older generations that talk of living vicariously through their children’s exploits and prided myself on being able to rock climb, mountain bike and rip up the slopes, but now I wasn’t the one doing the ripping. My kids at 7 and 8 years old were expertly carving through bumps, leaning into steep turns, and driving their weight into soft snow.

            It was inexplicable.

            “Wow. You guys can ski.”

            “Duhhh, Dad.” Michael said.

            “We’ve been skiing every year.” Jane rolled her eyes at me.

            “No I mean, you’re good. You’re legitimately good.”

            “Oh… okay.” Michael shrugged his shoulders and then pointed his sticks downhill, looking for another jump.

            We stopped for overpriced hot cocoa and so the kids could jam handfuls of peppermints into their ski coats. I didn’t have to pick up any gear from tables or even help with putting skis and poles on the ski rack. They just did it all themselves. 

            “Who are these kids?” I asked Wifey.

            “They’ve got it this year, don’t they?” She laughed.

            It didn’t stop there. We even got hoots and hollers from riders on the chair as the 4 of us plowed through a bump run.

            As a kid, I used to relish this sort of anonymous chairlift attention. One family story we tell is of a trip to Steamboat Springs when I was about 12 and my younger brothers were 10 and 8. I lead my brothers and father down a particularly large bump run right under one of the main chairs. My brothers and I made it down to a cat track and looked up to see my Dad end up in a particularly explosive and fairly graceful yard sale in the middle of the run: parts, pieces, and equipment went everywhere.

            “Come on, Dad. You’re OK.” I shouted.

            “Get up. You can do it,” said my brothers.

            As my father started to pull himself and his gear back together, the chairlift took note of the three little boys at the bottom of the run yelling encouragement up to their father, still buried deep in the bumps.

            And that was all it took.

            “Yeah, Dad. You got this,” One rider offered.

            “Come on, Old Man,” said another. “Catch up with your kids.”

            “Go, Dad. Go.”

            From that point until my father managed to make his way cautiously down to the cat track where his children awaited him, the chairlift heckling intensified, culminating in a jeering round of applause as he pulled up beside us.

            Skiing is so much more than nabbing that secret powder stash or executing a flawless series of turns. It’s a fellowship of snow. A communion of glory, gnar, and fantastic failure. All to be rollicked in and shared with friends and family.

            And now I realize, it’s a rite of passage for children moving from green-groomed to double-bad-ass. And their parents’ rite of passage in helping them get there.

            “Yup, it’s official,” Wifey said as we rolled into the chair lift.

            “What’s that?” I asked.

            “I can no longer ski faster than my son.”

Force of Nature - July 2018

            Jane is a force of nature and has been ever since she was in utero. Wifey went into labor 6 weeks early, right in the middle of the school day. Her first thought was ‘Wait a minute, those are contractions.’ Her second thought was, ‘This baby is not coming now, I’m getting credit for teaching today.’

            From that moment on, it’s been a battle of wills between our vivacious daughter and us. In the Newborn Intensive Care Unit at St. Mary’s in Reno, Jane would rip her feeding and oxygen tubes out and literally do a push up to move her head from one side to the other. The wonderful nursing staff immediately took note: ‘Wow, your daughter is quite the fighter.’

            “Gee, ugh. Thanks.” Wifey and I stammered.

            Naively, my unstated goal for our recent trip up Half Dome in Yosemite was building some conformance and acquiescence in Jane. I also wanted her to appreciate the simplicity of hiking for days in the backcountry and be authentically proud of something besides manipulating her parents.

            Day 1: We embarked from Tenaya Lake with my cousin Sarah, who was visiting from Washington D.C. Unfortunately, Sarah and I made the mistake of pointing out the landscape.

            “Jane, check it out.” Sarah said from the first overlook. “That mountain in the distance, that’s Cloud’s Rest.”

            “What? No!” Jane cried out. “That’s so So so So far away. I won’t go. No way.”    

            We did manage to persuade her to continue, in part through strategically-timed bribery, like letting Jane keep the trail map and update us on our depressingly slow progress or my mid-day gift of a slingshot, to be used to hunt the chipmunks and Goblins that live in the rocks under Cloud’s Rest.

            When we reached the final uphill before the summit, Jane all but forgot how tired her legs were and was just excited about finally realizing a goal we’ve been talking about for a year. I had to take her hand and slow her down, because as she explained to Sarah over dinner at the summit, “There’s death on this side and death on that side. So, we needed to hike right in the middle.”

            “Good thinking,” Sarah responded.

            That evening, we hiked down toward Half Dome as the sun set over the valley. It was exquisite. Under the light of a full moon, we turned on headlamps and hiked close to each other singing Disney songs until finally reaching Sunrise Creek and a small collection of tents around a campfire.

            Day 2: The next morning, it was Half Dome Day. We left our tent set up and took smaller packs for the journey. Jane was moving slowly, but her spirits lifted when Linda Lee, a very experienced ranger, complimented her and accepted a gummy worm offering from Jane, “You are amazing. I bet you’ll be the youngest kid up here today. Is it okay if I take a picture with you to show my trainees?”

            From that point on, Jane’s perception of the whole experience did an about-face. She was a celebrity and almost every stranger we encountered offered her some words of encouragement or dumbfounded awe.

            Even harnessed and clipped to me and the cables, Jane pushed through her doubts and negativity.

            “This is too hard! I think this is far enough, Daddy.” 

            “We’re almost there.” I responded. “See where that guy is? That’s pretty much the end of the cables and we’ll be at the top.”

            “Okay.”

            At the summit, Jane scampered around sharing more gummy worms and ‘Astronaut Ice Cream’ with her adoring fans. She regaled them with the story of how a chipmunk had eaten the rest of her Macaroni and Cheese on Cloud’s Rest the night before and how she hiked at night.

            On the hike down, Linda Lee joined us and held hands with Jane, smiling and talking about her life as an accomplished and independent woman in the park service. Sarah and I had to quickly change the topic when Jane was about to divulge a few too many particulars about where we had camped the night before our backcountry permit started.   

            That evening in Little Yosemite Valley after swimming in the Merced River and sitting around another campfire where Jane received even more kudos, things took a turn toward antagonism.

            “Daddy, I’m hungry. Feed me, now.”

            “Jane, honey, we already ate dinner and that’s not how you ask.”

            “But, I’m hungry now and I didn’t get enough and didn’t like the pasta.”

            “All we have left is a little oatmeal for breakfast, Kiddo.”

            After 10 minutes of trying to explain the concept of food rationing and Jane getting progressively irate, she actually threw a hiking pole at me.  

            “Jane, why did you do that? That was really dangerous.”

            “I’m hungry!”

            In part to avoid the scorn of nearby campers, I finally consented. 

            “Jane, I’m giving this 2nd dinner to you now, but I want you to apologize for trying to hurt me and I want you to realize this means that tomorrow, I don’t get to eat.”

            “Okay. I’m sorry, Daddy.”

            Day 3: Sarah and Jane hiked the 5 miles down to the main valley floor while I hoofed it 15 miles up to Tuolumne where the car was parked. 

            Maybe it was food-deprivation-excessive-hiking-induced-delirium, but on the way back up the John Muir Trail, I realized how upside down my goals for the trip were. Jane definitely broadened her perspective. But more importantly, I feel like my paradigm for raising my daughter has completely shifted.

            The relationship between parent and child is not unilateral. It’s not just Wifey and I imparting our wisdom on our offspring and Michael and Jane passively absorbing it. No. We, as parents, learn and grow too.

            With this trip, I’ve come to realize that as much as I try, I’m not ultimately in control. Jane is. Jane won’t acquiesce to our every demand. She defies conformity, this has been true since that first day when Jane decided that she’d had enough of Wifey’s womb. Sure, we can teach her to use utensils properly or to brush her hair, but ultimately, Jane is who she is in a willful, wonderful, and wild way. Building a fly hotel in the dirt with bug-repellant wipes and doing cartwheels in unicorn pajamas around the campfire for the entertainment of fellow hikers is Jane, and it’s not going to change. She’s a force of nature as big and beautiful as the landscape we just traversed and the best thing I can do is keep her safe, give her experiences and guidance, but mostly, instead of trying so hard to change her, I’ll start to just enjoy the view.