And like the last time, I’ll comment on why they matter to me.

1.

I took this out the front window of our house. With the fog it seems like we’re in completely untouched surroundings. In truth, we have neighbors and easy freeway access, but this is our view. Every time I see this photo I feel profoundly blessed that we have our house. The things that aligned to put us into this place are a clear moving of divine providence in our lives. I try to sit and look out this window every morning before going to work. It reminds me.

2.

I work very hard on Everyday Driver. In fact, it is a genuine second job and often very difficult to balance in the midst of real job, marriage, parenthood and writing for this blog and plot-driven purposes. I love the show and the experiences it has granted us. I’m also proud of much of our work. This is a 2011 BMW M3 I photographed during one of the most epic shoots we’ve ever produced. It reminds me of all the things we have accomplished. All the things I still want to improve. And how well we do when everything is working.

3.

As a rule, I really don’t like pictures of myself. That may seem strange considering the amount of time I spend on camera these days (see #2), but I’m much more comfortable seeing myself in motion than frozen in time. Strange, but true. I didn’t know this photo had been taken, as Paul snapped it while in our front yard for Thanksgiving. I like the adventure suggested in this photo, with home base represented by our address marker as we head off toward the distant mountains. And the dog, realizing I really am going for a walk and scampering happily to catch up. This is what free-time looks like.

4.

Now that everyone has camera phones, Bodie is constantly documented with his own troop of paparazzi. I can’t even fathom how many thousand photos have been snapped of the little guy. And when pics of his younger days are brought out I find a strange realization… I don’t find him cuter as a baby. I don’t miss or long for those days. I look forward to the little guy he can become – and this picture hints at that future. On the move. Focused and headed somewhere with happy purpose. And thankfully, Carrisa Uribe captured this moment for us with her great eye. More of this.

5.

In some ways, this is a family pic which wouldn’t wind up in the “best ones” pile. Another photo from our shoot with Carissa, but this one tells my favorite story. Bodie is hating being confined and is prepping for meltdown. Catherine is doing her regular job of beautifully keeping him in check. I’m making some absurd commentary on how our life is going and she’s finding me funny. And though I’m making light of the situation, I’ve also got a hand on the dog, because she’s the real wild card of the group. As much as I don’t like pictures of me, this photo is the story of us.

Who knows what 2012 will bring. I’m looking forward to seeing it captured.

At age 2 we’re hopefully in the back ½ of my son’s diaper years and the beginning of his vocabulary. As a result he has now become some sort of strange excrement alarm clock that grabs its crotch and says “Puupie” when he craps himself.

I will acknowledge this is not a fool-proof system. Things fall through the cracks, if you will. However, something happened this evening which I believe was a Barnum & Bailey sanctioned three-ring circus of body functions.

We’d been playing for a while, laughter, a thud, some crying, then more laughter. Guy fun that results in possible injury, (thus… crying) but is generally the kind of stuff only boys are going to think is a good idea, (thus… laughing). All was well. In fact, there wasn’t even an offending stench to warn of what lay ahead.

Suddenly, my son starts doing a mean Elvis impression. He’s wriggling one leg like he’s got palsy and says “Puupie” right before he lifts his foot and… thump. There on the rug was a little brown log. Compared to his size it was a tree. How that escaped the diaper and Elvised down his pant-leg is unknown, but my son had now shit the carpet while standing up.

I struggled for words for a second. Then promptly handed him off for cleanup while I went for towels to deal with the log. I returned to find the log was gone.

The dog had eaten the problem. I know this because she was standing over the spot and licking her chops. I balked and she looked at me like “What? He dropped it, I ate it, like always.”

Good news: there is no more shit on the rug. Bad news: the dog will want to kiss you later.

Upstairs, the blowout was so immense and its magical journey to the floor so smearing that the only choice was a bath. The water was running and my son was standing on the bathmat awaiting the proper water temperature.

Obviously, this was the perfect moment to pee. He was staring at his penis and concentrating on the task at hand like a senior citizen with a prostate problem. I even heard the faintest grunt as he drenched the bathmat and his socks. The dog was not around to solve this problem.

A lot happened in the next half hour. We ran a bath and the washer. I felt the need to change my clothes. I didn’t get anything on me, but I somehow couldn’t stand to continue in the attire that had seen this episode. The dog curled up on the couch and took a nap. I think we’re better now.

Thank God for soap and water. Too bad I can’t wash out the dog’s mouth.

These days I can be flying down the freeway, notice one out of the corner of my eye, and slice across three lanes of traffic to get our little man some slide time. He loves these places, but the adult in me only sees the vile plastic, wobble construction, and mats which were probably washed when Reagan was in office. Yet these places have revealed something much more interesting and unknown; playgrounds of all kinds have their own social order. Adults beware.

I first noticed this phenomenon when visiting an great indoor kid-gym in Park City. Since most places are 2 & up, but our little guy is pretty fearless, I have spent a fair amount of time following him down the twisting tunnels. Other kids do not like this. I have entered their sacred domain and I am not wanted. In one especially tight space, as Bodie navigated a stair half his size, a girl of about six came flying up behind us.

“Excuse me.” She said. “Excuse me” She barked. “Excuse me” she almost yelled as I pulled Bodie aside and she darted past.

Technically she was being very polite, but based on tone and body language she actually said “Get out of my way.” Then “You’re not supposed be in here”. And finally “Move or I’m going right over the top of him.” I may have been the closest adult, but she was my superior.

It’s not all bad, of course. Only a cursory glance at any kid-world will reveal the girl with the mommy complex – helping random toddlers whether they like it or not. Once I nearly thought one of them was going to carry our little man away. He paused at a stair and she took it upon herself to hoist him up and then try for the next one. Never mind that I was telling her we were on our way down at the time. It was like I was on mute.

Apparently playgrounds are also not a place for contemplation. When faced with a new piece of equipment or ride it is never acceptable to size up the activity and then decipher your next move. The correct response is to hurl oneself at the equipment and if it should give you a gaping headwound then cry hysterically until someone else fixes the problem. I learned this because my son is an observer.

At the moment, our little guy views slides with fascination. He’s a big fan of fast motion and understands what slides do, but there are steps to follow: First, approach the slide. Second, with feet square and one hand for support, slowly lower yourself to a seated position. Third, move both feet in front of you – which generally takes a struggle because you sat on at least one of them in step two. Four, inch yourself forward on the plastic until you begin to slide. Five, enjoy. However, the impatient kid behind him has a far simpler routine: First, run like you’re about to ignite. Second, slide when the world falls out from under your feet. Contemplation only pissed this kid off. He sat behind Bodie, put his feet in the middle of his back, and pushed for all he was worth. Bodie looked at me and then him with a toddler equivalent of “Dude, what the hell?”. And when I grabbed my little guy and pulled him aside this kid hurled himself headfirst through the tiny gap.

So the next time you see an eyesore of bright plastic tangled into slides and tunnels, know that it isn’t a haven for little people but an incubator for the future’s social issues. And look close enough and you may see what’s in store for the kids involved.

NASA will probably need astronauts who are up for a good ride to Mars but would like an extensive checklist first. Kids like my son will be a great match for that.

And somewhere a destruction derby will need someone to grow out a mullet and commit vehicular massacre for a case of bud and a lot of “Whoo-hooo…”. I’ve met the perfect kid for that as well.

We’re thrilled that our son is so fascinated by books, and he often grabs them and sits, happily flipping through each page and speaking in gibberish. He understands the concept, he just has no vocabulary or actual retention. Supposedly this is a good sign at this age… as opposed to doing it later in life when it involves help from people in lab coats.

All of this mock-reading has exposed me to all kinds of children’s books. And as a writer I’ve been struck by the fact that writing for children is mostly inane and completely lacking in an actual writing talent. Suddenly I understand why random celebrities become moms and then make the talk show circuit as a “new children’s author”. It’s like getting your driver’s license and then going around calling yourself a race driver… operating at the lowest level doesn’t make you an expert.

Don’t believe me? Let’s break down the basic tenants of literature available for the under 3 reader. Pages as thick as a laptop. Bright colors. A story which can be broken into simple sentences and mentions the following: Animals. Colors. Body parts. Basic social concepts. Textures. Shapes. And possibly family. And the real award winning kid-lit does something amazing… it combines things from the list!

Plus, if laid out in simple sentences, the average book could go out as a Tweet. 300 words is the equivalent of War and Peace among children’s books.

Some of you might be saying “I think it’s a lot harder than it looks…”. But I just can’t shake the fact that some actresses who can’t put a thought together without a script in front of them start breeding and decide “I’m the Hemmingway for toddlers.”. These are the same folks who can’t tell you how to get from Hollywood to Disneyland without a GPS.

So, I’m thinking of becoming a children’s author, and I present to you my first work, “Something on your finger”. But without the proper pictograms and industrial cardboard pages you’ll be able to read it quite rapidly.

Something on your finger, Yellow, Green, & Sticky

Touch it. Squeeze it. But it’s awfully Icky.

Don’t wipe on your sister, that’s not where it goes.

Wipe it in a Kleenex, that’s where you put stuff from you nose.

See? Body parts, colors, textures, family, social lessons, and even brand awareness. I forgot shapes, I suppose, but I’ll include that in the sequel “Something in your Closet” – It’s a toddler-horror and it’s gonna be the Twilight series for the under 2 reader.

Watch for me on the talk show circuit.

So since my son has been born he’s flown many, many times. Frankly, I’ve lost count, and I applaud my wife for surviving the recurring madness. However, I have only taken one flight with the two of them and it established airports and airplanes as places where new and exciting things can happen with your child.

When we all flew a couple of months ago my son wasn’t walking yet. He’d stand up, sway like a drunken sailor, and fall to the floor with a spine-shattering violence. Then crawl away at a speed which defied logic. So, as we waited to board, our little man was crawling around a bit. He found an empty bit of carpet and stood up. And people noticed.

Then he tried to take a step, with much swaying and falling over. But he kept trying. Standing. Falling. Stepping. Swaying. And before long it only took a cursory glance around the terminal to see a good number of people watching our little guy try and walk.

And walk he did. Right there in the Southwest Boarding Area of the Salt Lake City Airport. He stood up and defined the term toddler as he tromped around in circles. I actually heard “ohs” and quiet applause when he put it all together.

I was awash in thoughts and feelings about this moment. Of course, I was damn proud of the little guy. And I enjoyed the irony of sharing this very personal family moment with a horde of other people.

But I kept thinking that he’d been able to stand for weeks. He’d toyed with the idea of walking and never really dedicated himself to making it happen. He waited. Then, when he had a captive audience… showtime!

Which means he’s like his Mom.

By the time we got to his latest plane-ride, walking had become a well refined part of his life. The downside is that sitting still is now deemed completely unacceptable and he wants to walk everywhere he can… right now. My wife took on the task of flying with him anyway, and I watched her pack things to try and keep him occupied instead of climbing the seat in front of him.

A portable DVD player has made him an easy-going car traveler, so she packed the player and a set of noise-cancelling headphones for the plane. I scoffed at this, because even though he likes to watch “the glowy box” in any form, he won’t leave anything on his head for more than 30 seconds. And he has a bad habit of dropping or throwing anything which begins to bore him.

When they landed I got this picture from my wife:

He sat for more than an hour and watched his DVDs. Meaning my wife had one of her least stressful plane rides with the little guy. And again I was awash in thoughts on this moment.

Yes, I was proud of him again. And the picture made me laugh. Then there was the thought that we’ve done him a great favor by helping him engage with screens at such a young age. The whole world is screens anyway. Or… maybe we’ve scarred him for life… Anyway, no matter what, the kid was stuck in a boring situation and was perfectly content to kick back and watch a movie.

Which means he’s like his Dad.

This is your in-flight entertainment. But fasten your seat-belts. It’s gonna get bumpy.

It’s difficult for me to remember the last time I saw something completely new. I mean something so decidedly different that it left me without a similar experience to draw upon and compare. Yet everything in our lives was once as mind-freezing as an alien encounter. This is the constant experience of a toddler.

The strange side-effect of witnessing this, is the way it cuts loose the bonds of cynicism and allows an adult the chance to live on two planes at once. In one universe you know all about the crazy new discovery made by your little person, but in the other universe you’re able to look at it and marvel along with them without excuse.

We adults have to have an excuse. We need a reason to get excited. We can’t stop in the Starbucks line and poke the saran-wrapped sandwiches just to watch the dressing bulge. People would stare. Someone would sigh or yell at us to get moving, and after enough time people with either badges or white coats would come and take us away. Yet stand in the same line with a toddler and the whole world lets you poke and prod and marvel at the squishy goodness of it all.

I’ve been having this experience with animals. At this point in life I’ve seen a good example of just about every creature, so I find them fun to watch, but never shocking. Meanwhile my son has gained an obsession with elephants. We watch countless elephants go by on video and in books and he’ll raise one arm and make a weak and warped elephant noise over and over. (The truth is it looks like he’s doing a child’s version of the Hitler salute, but we know what he means and just try to keep our little Aryan masterpiece from doing this in public.) He can’t say elephant, but it fascinates him beyond all other creatures. To my son, Elephants are like Justin Bieber with better hair.

What I’m most enjoying about this elephant-a-palooza is the chance to notice the following:

Elephants are freaky and fascinating. I mean, really… legs like trees but they can’t run well. Ears like satellite dishes but they aren’t known for their hearing. (By the way, why do we associate elephants with great memories? They seem to get stuck in the same mudhole every year without remembering it happened before). And of course, the strange fact that an elephant’s most dexterous limb… isn’t a limb at all. Try grabbing your next meal with your nose.

And don’t even get me started on giraffes. Longest necks in the world, but no voicebox. What’s going on there?

I guess it just proves that even God gets bored. After making every possible permutation of quadrupeds, riffing on the basic ideas of cat, dog, and horse until he was pulling out his beard…

“Hey Gabriel… come look at this one. It’s nose is it’s arm… “
“That’s awesomely strange and wonderful, your Almighty-ness.”
“Yes. I know.”

And He went off to make a platypus and follow up with an ostrich.

So now here I am like a strange guide into an alien safari. It’s all new stuff, and it’s all cool enough to get stared at, touched, turned over, and maybe even chewed on. And really, how much can you say you know about something if you’ve never put a handful of it in your mouth? Or at the very least, paused and marveled.

Poor kid got cynical me as a father. Which leaves me scrambling to find the wonder in everything… and pass it on.

The Octopus, for example. Eight legs and no bones. Did God skip a step? Was there a bet in Heaven? Was this the result of a creation themed game of ad-libs? Forget area 51… aliens are already here.

And my son hasn’t even seen one yet.

I don’t remember learning English. I’m sure I was full of questions about it, but I truly have no memories of asking about a word or learning a new phrase. For me, vocabulary exercises are linked to those specially hellish memories of classes which couldn’t end fast enough. Yet, now that we’re spending time parroting things for my son I’ve gained a new perspective on the enormous mountain of learning associated with English. In fact, maybe I need to learn something else because the scale can’t be larger than the jumbled mess of rules and exceptions which make up my native tongue.

The depth of English struck me today in two separate moments of vocabulary. In one, I joked with a co-worker and my little throw-away quip fell flat because of my word choice. I didn’t miss-speak or accidentally offend, but I used a word which required a split second of “wait, what does that mean?”. Jokes that miss large sections of your audience are only funny if you’re Eddie Izzard. I. Am. Not. So this turned into a brief conversation about the differences in our vocabularies. Of course, this was also comic gold.

How is it we can grow up in the same country, with the same language, and same basic educational system, yet glean such different ways to communicate? Word choice is as unique as our fingerprints. And there’s no telling what can spark you to mine the depths of your verbal vault.

This evening my wife began reading a new book for our small group. And there on the first page was a word she hadn’t seen before. Now if we’re all honest, any book that you makes you think will probably contain a word or two you aren’t that familiar with. For my wife, it just happened to be on the first page – which means she got it out of the way, and can now go on with enjoying the read.
Anyway…

The word was: “exegeted”. Some of you are now asking google what it means, and that’s fine. Others of you may do what I did:

“Oh, from the word Exegesis,” I said, and began to offer a marginal definition.

“Exa-Jesus”, my wife says to me. As in – Used to be the Son of God and then got tired of the hassle and passed the role on to someone else. The Savior Formerly Known as Christ. (Much to my chagrin… this is not the definition)

Which made me wonder… when did I learn the word “Exegesis”? Why on earth did I retain this word? And more importantly, how could I better use the brain-space being wasted by words which will only cross my path every dusty decade or so. After all… I’ve forgotten 80% of the math I ever learned. Which really doesn’t matter because my phone can calculate the return trajectory of Apollo 13 better than a room full of 1960s rocket scientists. But, somehow my brain has decided that words need to be pulled to the core while anything dealing with numbers can be marched to the exit.

I am a superfluous confluence of vernacular.

My apologies. Apparently this line of thinking has stirred the words in my brain like kicking an ant hill.

So this is the challenge awaiting my son… learning not only enough to communicate, but also tolerate his father’s outbursts of strange syllables. He’ll have to apologize to his friends for my vocabulary tourettes. Then help me figure out how old he is by counting on my fingers.

Ultimately, I’m just marveling how we all grow into such different aptitudes. How do the same core ingredients splinter into a cornucopia of varied skills and interests? My son learned perfect rhythm months ago but can’t say Hippo. So mostly, I’m hoping that all our instant access to definitions and new information will keep my brain sharp while it hones his into a marvel. Cause I’m still learning my first language.

-Note= No thesaurus was used (or injured) in the making of this article. All these words came out of my head, but spell-check nearly exploded trying to get them right.

However, I’m talking about lessons – observations, really – I would not have come to without our little guy around. So, here are my top five for year one:

1 – Cattle Roping was invented by parents

I grew up in Texas, so by default I’m supposed to know how to rope, ride, and chase critters. Or so they tell me. But I have to admit I’ve always wondered why there’s so many theatrics when it comes to roping a calf. It’s a small, dumb animal. The roping horse is like Steven Hawking by comparison. So, for the even more intelligent human to come sailing off the already superior horse, tackle a calf, and tie its legs together kinda feels like you’re picking on the little guy.

Bear roping. Now that’s a fair sport.

But now I’ve realized that some cowboy with a little one at home got an unruly calf one day and figured… “Wait, I know how to handle this”. Thus, calf roping was born.

Don’t believe me? Try putting a diaper on an infant who can crawl. They no longer want to lay on their back. To them, everything is more interesting than lying there while you, quite literally, deal with their shit. So I’ve held both wrists and ankles in one hand while I perform the world’s fastest and least graceful diaper change with the other.

I’ve also said, screw it, and diapered the little minion while he’s crawling away. Which was about the time I realized the purpose of cattle roping. In fact, I’d probably be damn good at it.

2 – Hardcovers are awesome

Somewhere in this world of valuable space, scarce finances, and ebooks I decided that hard covers are a complete waste. I realize that is supposed to be sacrilege for a writer, but I see no purpose in a brick of reading material when it’s easier in softback, ebook, or audio file.

But Hardcovers are the greatest thing to happen to infants. You become thankful that your DVD collection is in those bulky, unnecessarily-large cases. “Sure, son, beat yourself in the head with Citizen Kane. Hurts, don’t it!”.

And the books children read are as thick as Science textbooks. But, they’re only six pages long. Each page is made of an individual two-by-four with rounded edges. Why? So that papercuts are impossible, and the pages won’t fall prey to the fate of normal paper which is…

Ripping. This is the natural pastime of unreading toddlers everywhere. My son loves flip books – they have handy flaps on each page which make tearing especially easy. And Dad’s car magazines exist for the sole purpose of creating confetti balls.

Which leads me to a new measure of childhood maturity, it’s not handing them the car keys, but actually reading a magazine.

3 – You will make noises

Ever looked at a parent and wondered how they became insane enough to repeat an annoying noise over and over while they sit at a restaurant? All it takes is one child discovering their voice or timing out and you’ll turn into a master of stupid sounds from an annoying made up language.

These little ones discover noises they can make and use it like a new toy until something else gets their attention. That leaves only a frazzled parent between you and a restaurant filled with an infant’s screaming. Suddenly, the parent turns into a makeup-less clown on a no-sleep bender. Faces. Chirps. Tongue out shenanigans. Partial words said over and over associated with jerky rocking motions into the child’s face. The only other place this happens is in the nice quiet hospitals with the white coats and straight jackets.

“Honey, is that man insane?… Oh, no wait… he has an infant.”

And this ewok noise I’m making is keeping him quiet. So go back to your dinner.

4 – Born to Dance

What makes us human and above lower forms of life? Complex thought? Tool building? Or maybe our construction of huge systems and cities?

I’ve come up with one. Rhythm. Not just the sense and awareness of the beat, but the uncontrollable urge to shake your ass. A part of me always thought you learned to really hear and appreciate music. But my son has been bobbing in time with sound since he could sit up. Give him a tune and he’ll shake and flail with abandon, a trait we all lose at some point when we get self-conscious. But for now, he’s a sucker for a good beat, and he was born that way. I lost it. I hope he never does.

5 – The Matrix exists.

No, I don’t mean we’re all living in a huge constructed program being used for batteries. I’m talking specifically about the “download” in the Matrix where a person doesn’t know how to fight one minute and then a moment later has all the knowledge to take down an army of Bruce Lees.

I’ve watched my son learn in this way. I don’t know where the huge brain needle is when this happens, but one minute he can’t do something and the next it just… clicks.

Clapping was this way. No idea. Can’t get it. No awareness. Then, literally, he woke up one morning going “Hey guys, look what I can do… applause.” I didn’t upload the program. And my wife wants to kill every nurse that approaches him with a needle, so I don’t think she did it either.

The most impressive one has been climbing the stairs, cause unlike clapping you can get injured if you do it wrong. The first few attempts were more like lucky falling and fumbling, finding himself atop a stair, maybe two, before getting bored of the whole enterprise. Then a few months ago, my wife looked around to discover our little guy had vanished. Where was he? Completely upstairs and still on the move.**

But going down the stairs eluded our little guy for quite some time. We tried to help. We moved him through the motion. We sat by him and let him try different things. However, as you may have noticed, there are a lot of limbs and coordination involved when you’re crawling down something. Then, a few days ago as I watched… he simply did it… no explanation or trial runs, he just coordinated all his limbs and climbed down the stairs.

So I began to wonder where this chair is he gets strapped into for a download. There’s a few things I would like to learn this way and save all the pesky practice and failure. After much thought, I think the key is naps.

**(As a side note, she told me this story with fear for his safety and concern that her moment of looking away was proof of terrible mothering – and my gut reaction was… “Awesome… good for him”. – which encapsulated the difference between men and women. I suppose it also labels me as one of those “hard knock” parents – “Yeah, let him stick his finger in the socket, he’ll only do that once!”. Thankfully he does have his mother.)

I have no doubt there will be many more revelations of the world through my son’s discoveries. But for now the little guy needs to be roped, and then he’s going to chew on a hardcover book. Eventually, he’ll go down for a nap while we make a series of strange noises, at which point I intend to sleep as well because I’m hoping to wake up speaking French.

“Oh, that’s such a great age….”

This declaration brings me to one of two possibilities; the person speaking either has no recollection of a child this age, or they are being factious.

Imagine for a moment you have a long-term houseguest. They don’t speak a word of English, so your communication consists of guesswork based on their emotional responses. Laughing? They like what’s happening. Shrieking? Try something different. This may seem black and white on first glance, but if an activity has many variables then you’re left to guess which one is the offending party with only these on-off / happy-sad responses to lead you. This is the vocabulary of a one-year old.

Many well meaning people attempt to mask the fact that there is no telling what’s wrong with your screaming child by informing you that they are either a) tired, or b) hungry. Except when you look at the life of these one-year-olds you’ll find that 14 hours of the day is spent sleeping and two or so is spent eating. For you math prodigies out there, that leaves eight hours when the only think they definitely don’t need is a nap or something to eat!

But it’s a great age.

Honestly, I wonder how the human race has survived this long. My dog was born knowing how to walk, eat and even designate a place to crap all by herself. Yet, little humans are born only knowing how to wail and sleep. Even the laughing comes later. And while animals understand grooming without reading fashion magazines or looking in a mirror, my son lets snot roll down his face in pencil thick lines and then freaks out when anyone attempts to wipe them clean.

I am no better. I have an early memory of my mom saying to me “Don’t you feel the snot when it rolls out of your nose?” Apparently I didn’t, because this happened more than once. Obviously I was older than one at the time, since she knew I understood and was expecting an answer.

You wanna know a great age? Twenty-five. Or how about Thirty! We can walk, talk, eat, crap and drive all by ourselves. Theoretically we can carry on intelligent conversations, deal in complex problem solving, and maybe even keep the snot off our faces.

I realize people think fondly of the infant phase because of little shoes, little hugs, and little laughter. But those in no way counter-act little productivity, little quiet, and little sleep.

My wife recently heard the first two years of a kid’s life described as the “Dead Zone”. That’s the first real description I’ve heard, as it encapsulates the walking-dead, what-day-is-it, cloud of early parenting. Of course… this will be followed by the terrible twos, which obviously won’t get grouped into the “great age” camp any time soon.

In fact, the mid-thirties is a great age… except my wife and I have jumped right past it into some time a decade from now. We had seemed frozen in time for much of our marriage, only looking fractionally older than the day we married. Yet, parenthood has brought the time machine along with it and overshot us past our real age to something needing black arm bands and over-the-hill joke balloons.

I’d like to think things will settle out at some point, but by then our little guy will probably be packing for college. At least he’ll be able to tell us what’s going on in his head by then, and hopefully he’ll keep the snot off his face.

For now, though… we’re in the dead zone. And when the next person tells me it’s a great age I may sit down suddenly, cry inexplicably, and blow snot bubbles. Meanwhile, my dog just borrowed the car keys.

Two Southern California Teenagers are in the news. One, a sixteen-year-old girl currently solo-sailing around the world… non-stop. The other, a thirteen-year-old boy trying to scale Mt. Everest.

They get press because their endeavors bring outrage. Shock. Calls to child protective services because their parents are clearly unfit. People whisper about how these kids are going to die and any proper parent would never support such aspirations.

Maybe that’s true. Or maybe… Just maybe…

We’re all scared alarmist chickens and these parents are doing it exactly right.

What about the fact that this 13 year old climber has already done 5 of the world’s 7 summits? (The Seven Summits refers to the highest peak on every continent…) Most climbers in the world will never do the seven summits. Nearly all the folks who’ve done Everest, including the sherpas, haven’t done all 7. And he’s climbing with his parents who happen to be hard-core adventure racers. The result is a 13 year old with goals and enough dedication to train harder than most adults. This is hardly a kid going from PS3 to Crampon boot.

Or how about the fact that the 16 year old sailor comes from a family of sailors and her brother did the trip a year ago? I’ve met this family. I worked with this boy who did the trip. I don’t agree with everything they’re doing, but I know that their daughter wanted to do this long before her older brother decided to pull up anchor.

Truth be told, I’m pondering all of this for one simple reason: I have dangerous pastimes. I was jumping my bike as soon as I could balance, and when I was a kid we weren’t wearing helmets and kneepads! I’m obsessed with performance driving. I love rock climbing. I enjoy solo trips deep into the backcountry. And my favorite kind of skiing is cutting fresh tracks through tight trees. Yet I still feel like I never really pushed the envelope enough. I’m not half as daring as I’d like to be, and yet my interests scare the hell out of a lot of people.

I know I’ll definitely introduce my son to these pastimes. And there’s a good chance he’ll like one or two of them and want to push the envelope himself. Which means… he’s going to get hurt. And it’s going to be on my watch.

Now before you start filling the comment section, know that I’m far from reckless. I’ve embraced the use of helmets, and I wouldn’t tree-ski without one. I don’t go out into the backcountry without leaving plenty of info on where I’ll be. And anyone who’s climbed with me will tell you they felt very safe.

But I hope I never embrace the growing fear that permeates our culture and is shouted through megaphones toward all parents. I stand astonished to find that everyone can tell you a horror story about everything from sleeping to vaccinations. Do not go onto the internet to see if something is bad for your child. I’ll save you the google time; yes, it’s terrible. Someone knows someone whose child died from it… Anything you can think of, no matter how innocuous, can kill your child.

Into this stupefying din I accept the fact that there will be blood: From skinned knees, and scraped palms, and probably some random headwound which will bleed like a broken damn but only leave a tiny scab on a big lump. That’s growing up.

Heck, that’s just life.

We could all die doing anything. Hanging a picture or hanging from a cliff-face. But I truly believe that taking risks and pushing yourself is the only way to stay young. And my son IS young… so hopefully I can push myself long enough to at least keep up for a while.

A part of me really hopes he ends up world-class at taking risks. I’ve accepted that I won’t be a cutting edge climber or F1 racing driver. But if that’s in his future then I’ll be on the sidelines grinning so much it hurts.

I’ll like it almost as much as doing it myself. Almost.

The real battle will be everyone else. Because now, suddenly, the tiny percentile chance of something going wrong is the only percentage we’re supposed to care about. It’s like believing you will definitely win the lottery every time… and the prize is pain and suffering. Best to not play at all!

Dream big. Take risks. Do something that scares you.

I say that for me. I need to remember. I need to hear it over the rumble of doom. And if I’m really blessed, I’ll raise a son who’ll hear it too.