Rulen Brandt Daley

My dad is celebrating his 58th birthday on Monday and Father's Day is next Sunday. I'm broke so I've been trying to figure out what I could get him. I decided to dedicate this post to him and detail some things I've learned from the second best dad in the world (I'm the first best dad in the world and I have a t-shirt to prove it).

My dad has taught me integrity. I remember when I was about 7, we went to Disneyland as a family. I saw a sign outside the front gate that said Children 4 and Under are Free. It was Nick's 5th birthday that day. I told my dad that he could save $35 if he just told them Nick's birthday was tomorrow. I mean, really... it's only one day. My dad said that would be dishonest and he refused to lie. I've remembered that experience after all these years. I'd like to think I never had to be retaught that lesson, except... when I was 17 my dad noticed I had stolen some towels from a hotel I'd stayed at while appling for the Marine Corps. My dad didn't say much of anything, but I found out later he had taken the towels back to the hotel and apologized for my behavior. How embarrassing (that I stole when I was 17... not that he returned them).

My dad has taught me respect. When I was in Young Men's (about 12) in church our leader Loron Marler divided us into teams and told us to come up with a team name for an activity. My best friend J.B. Hinrichs and I decided on the genius name of Sretab-Rutsam. Loron asked repeatedly what it meant and we made something up about a band we listened to or something.
We thought it was hilarious until the next Sunday when we saw our team names printed in the Sacrament Program with the team members names under them. My dad figured it out pretty quickly and then escorted me to Loron after church so I could apologize.

My dad taught me fairness. When I was five I accompanied my parents to a Ward Softball game at the park. There was a playground that I spent all my time on. I thought it was entertaining to stand next to the Merry-Go-Round and throw handfuls of sand up in the air so it landed in the face and hair of everyone enjoying the nausea of spinning in circles for hours on end. A seven year old jumped off the Merry-Go-Round and threw a handful of sand right into my mouth and eyes. I ran to my dad who then carried me back to the playground so I could point out the kid who did it. I pointed to him and my dad ripped him a new hole. After my dad had finished screaming, the kid stuttered, "But he was throwing it as us first." My dad looked at me and I smiled and shrugged my shoulders or something. My dad apologized to the kid and told me I was lucky to only have grainy eyeballs for two days.

My dad always made me feel better for some reason. When I was 11 I broke my right arm from jumping out of a swing set doing the whole "One for the money" routine. My dad met us at the doctors office right as the doctor explained he'd have to "set" my arm. Well I had broken my left arm 3 years earlier and I was still having nightmares about having the arm "set". While I was laying there with my mom on one side and my dad on the other, I asked him if he would put his hand over my mouth when my arm was set so the patients in the waiting room wouldn't hear me screaming. I remember seeing tears in my dads eyes as he put his hand as tight as he could over my mouth while the doctor pulled on my arm to align the bones. My dad did as I had asked, but I could tell how much he was hurting inside knowing his favorite son was suffering.

My dad showed me that even really old guys could still have fun. He had low inhibitions when it came to playing with his kids. I borrowed my friends video camera when I was about 13. The only cool trick I knew how to do was to make people "disappear"... you know, shut off the camera and hold really really still while they run out of the frame, then turn the camera back on. What? Where did they go? My dad "disappeared" so many times I can't even count... including the time he "disappeared" in mid-air while jumping on the trampoline.

My dad taught me that it's okay to laugh at someone, as long as you don't take it too far. We lived in Arizona until I was five. We pretty much always ran around without our shirts on. A lot of nights, my dad would go outside and catch one of those big, black, ugly crickets and sneak them inside. Once he was inside the house, he'd shake them up for a while in his hand until they were good and dazed. Then he'd let them go on our stomachs. We would try to cry, but we'd be so scared we couldn't move. My dad would sit back and laugh his head off along with my mom and any of the siblings who weren't directly involved in the torture.

My dad taught me how to control my anger by having pets. Even though my parents have two dogs currently, my dad hated having pets while I was growing up. He was constantly complaining about something they had done. We tried to have a dog a couple of times, but it only lasted about a month each time. My dad was able to tolerate cats, for the most part, but I remember two specific instances when my dad would have literally killed our cat with his bare hands if they weren't so effing agile. The first time is when my dad was barbecuing in the back yard. He had a few patties already cooked and sitting on a plate on the patio table. Our cat, Lester, jumped on the table, snaked a patty and took off running. My dad gave chase and caught up to Lester right as they were getting to our Lilac bush. Just as Lester disappeared under the bush, my dad kicked as hard as he possibly could, hoping to catch Lester in butt. Unfortunately, my dad didn't know there was a cinder block just under the bush... and my dad was barefoot. I remember him rolling on the grass holding his foot for about 5 minutes, but I never heard a swear word come out of his mouth. I'm sure he was saying them, but he was saying them quiet enough that we didn't hear anything.

The second time was when my dad was walking around the house one morning complaining about how our house smelled like cat crap. He was looking behind all the furniture knowing he'd find a big pile of cat poo somewhere. Eventually he made it to my room that I shared with my older brother, Ryan. We had dark blue, deeeeeeep shag carpet in our room (which was totally cool back in the early 80's). The shag was so deep the vacuum was unable to pick up most of the filth on the ground. Sure enough, my dad found a huge pile of cat crap right in the smack dab center of the room. It was a pretty runny poo and it was obvious the crap had seeped deep into the shag. My dad mumbled something and then disappeared out the downstairs door. Ryan and I were trying to decide if we should try to clean it up, when my dad reappeared with a box cutter he'd retrieved from the garage. He got on all fours and proceeded to cut about a 10" square hole out of the carpet with the cat poo being in the center. I remember we could see the concrete floor for about 3 years until we replaced the carpet in that room... and whenever I'd see the hole, I'd always smile at the thought of my dad and his frustration.

My dad taught me about the birds and the bees. My mom and dad told me the basics when I was about 11. However, the students at Degrassi Junior High didn't know how little I knew so they had all sorts of conversations in front of me about things I wasn't sure about. I remember my mom was making bread in the kitchen one afternoon and I asked her what a condom was. She asked where I'd heard about a condom. I told her that they were talking about it on Degrassi Jr. High. She motioned to the backyard and said, "You should go ask your dad about that one." So I walked outside while my dad was doing something to the sprinklers. I asked him what a condom was and he explained what they were and what they were used for in very clear terms. He never paused what he was doing with the sprinklers, which really helped with the comfort level. The conversation would have been a lot more awkward if he had stopped working, taken me into the bedroom, sat me on my bed and explained everything while making eye contact. He explained it casually and invited me to ask any follow up questions... which I did. It was a very informative conversation that I'll never forget.

My dad also taught me about the value of work and the importance of providing for your family. My dad worked quite a bit while we were growing up and my mom stayed at home for most of my upbringing. With five kids it was obvious my family struggled financially, though I didn't know it at the time. Most of our dinners consisted of some sort of potato dish. Either homemade hash browns with ketchup, fried potato chunks, or baked potato slices with butter on top. My mom would usually boil a dozen eggs every morning for us to eat for breakfast or we'd have a bowl of "raw oatmeal" which is surprisingly delicious. Whenever my dad was in charge, he'd break out the Ralston. My dad couldn't get enough of the Ralston. I might have liked it if it was called something besides Ralston. The name "Ralston" still makes me shiver. I'm pretty sure it was kinda like Cream of Wheat... only made out of corn, but I'm not positive. I remember waking up one Saturday morning all excited to watch Smurfs and I noticed my dad was sitting by the back door surrounded by piles of newspapers. He was folding them. I asked what on earth he was doing and he told me he had started doing a paper route for some extra money. I don't know how long he had secretly been doing it, but I've always looked back on that moment with great admiration for my dad. He was probably trying to get some extra money for Christmas or something. What a great guy.

My dad taught me to be creative. With seven people in our family, Family Home Evening was usually an adventure. Almost every Monday night for several years we'd have a lesson and then play Hide and Go Seek In the Dark. Most people have played some sort of variation of this game. Our version was one person would hide in a pitch black house while everyone else counted. Then we'd all split up to look for whoever was hiding. When you found the person who was hiding, you had to silently join them and hide until everyone had found them. Well, whenever my dad was "it" we were always excited. He could make the game dangerous and boring at the same time. The first thing he'd do while we were counting to 100 is rearrange as much of the furniture as he could without making any noise. When he heard us get to about 90, he'd tiptoe upstairs to his bedroom, lay on his bed and go to sleep. We'd all eventually find him, but we were always upset that he'd taken a nap like an old man instead of playing the game for real. But then, he'd get us back by finding someplace ridiculously hard to hide. One time it was on top of the fridge. Another time it was on top of a towel closet in my parents bathroom (there's a photo somewhere on this page of him climbing down when nobody could find him and we all gave up). To top it all off, you'll notice in the photo that my dad is wearing all black. He changed while we were counting so it made it even harder to find him. Thanks Dad. I can't wait to play this with my family.

I know this post has been pretty long, but I assure you, I have a list of other experiences to write about but I don't have time. Maybe I'll save them for next year. Like when my dad came with me to buy my first crappy car. Or when he sent me a ziplock bag with 60 vitamins in it when I had 2 months left on my mission. He called it my Vitamin Countdown. Or when my mom told me to wake my dad up when I got home from a date instead of her... but he'd never remember in the morning that I'd woken him up and had a 5 minute conversation about my date. Or the best one ever was on Halloween when my dad stripped down and put on his long winter coat that went to his knees and a Beetleguise mask. He went out the back door and knocked on the front door when there weren't any trick or treaters around. When my mom came to the door, my dad flashed her. My mom was so shocked, she didn't recognize the coat or mask or... well, you know.

I love my dad so much. He never missed an opportunity to tell me he loved me or that he was proud of me. He always made me feel like I could do better and never like I wasn't doing good enough. I can tell he's proud of me today because he can see that I'm enjoying being a father as much as he did when he was raising me. I can still call my dad with questions about my car, my yard, how to barbecue, or even the birds and the bees... and he always has the answer I'm looking for. I'm sure he always will.

Happy Birthday and Father's Day, Brandt. You're the awesomest!

Poo

I don't know what it is about poo that my family finds so funny. Usually it's talking about it that we find hilarious. Remember when you were little and you'd replace as many word in sentence with "poo" and "pee" just to get your siblings to laugh (or to get your parents to tell you to stop)? Don't even try to act like you didn't do it... you at least had a brother that did it and I know you laughed.

I can't believe how often Tyton can get Boston to laugh just by saying poo 15 times in a 17 word sentence. Not just a chuckle, either. I'm talking full blown can't-get-a-breath type of laughter.

I don't know if you are familiar with the children's program Caillou (pronounced "ky-you"), but there's a verse in the opening song that goes like this:

So many things to do.
Each day is something new.
I'll share them with you,
I'm Caillou.

Well whenever it's on, this is how my boys sing it between fits of hysterical laughter (and notice how the frequency of the word "poo" increases as the verse goes on):

So many things to poo.
Each poo is something poo.
I'll poo them poo poo.
Poo poooooooo pooo.

Maybe you'll recognize this one:

Well every poo is so glory poo
And every poo is so wonder poo
There's more to ex-poo
When you open your poo
Like curious, like curious, like Curious Poo!

Betsy and I try not to get after them poo often. Sometimes (if Betsy's not around) I'll make up some lyrics with them... only I'll mix it up so the lyrics are really poopy, but they also make sense.

By the way, I've also included a couple of poopy photos I thought you might enjoy. The first one is when Betsy was changing Bostons diaper and he decided to spray diarrhea all up Betsy's pants and shirt. If you blow the photo up, you may even see a chunk on her face.

The bottom photo is at Lagoon-a-Beach. Tyton was playing in the Volleyball Court sand and then I noticed he had something in his hands that he was pulling apart like it was Play-Doh. He said, "What's this, Dad?" with a look of curiosity on his face. I said, "It looks like cat poo. Smell it." He did smell it. It was cat poo. Then I took this photo.

My Fridge

You know how you can tell a lot about someone based on what's in their closet... or maybe in their medicine cabinet? Well I looked in my fridge this morning, saw my son's trains, and then glanced around at the rest of the items in my fridge. I thought, "I wonder what conclusions could be drawn about me and my station in life based solely on the contents of my refrigerator."

I decided to snap a photo of the main part and then took a separate photo of the door of the fridge. I think our choice of what goes in the door could say a lot about us by itself. I didn't move anything around or clean anything up prior to taking these pictures. This is exactly how our fridge looked as of nine o' clock this morning.

You don't have to be mean, either. You could say something like, "The English Muffins signify a quiet, subtle, sophistication." I think that's pretty accurate, by the way.

New Post

For a little while I tried not to post things on my blog on Fridays or Saturdays. I really like getting comments on my blog and I learned that weekends are not a good time to post things and then expect people to comment. I'm not positive of the reasons, but I think my guess is pretty good. First of all, I don't think people have as much time to kill on the weekends (as opposed to when they're sitting at work during the week) and as a result, they don't waste their weekends reading blogs and then commenting on them.

Secondly, by the time people DO have time to kill (on Monday at work), they don't leave comments because they figure it's an old post (3 days) and people don't usually read the comments on old posts so... "Why bother commenting if Cameron will be posting something new later today? I might as well just wait to comment on his new post this afternoon."

Ultimately, I've decided if I feel like posting something on a weekend I'm going to try not to put much thought into it. Maybe just post something easy that I've written in the past... or maybe a couple of photos. Nothing big. But if YOU'RE like ME, then you'll be excited when you see I've posted something new while you're clicking around on Saturday afternoon or maybe Sunday just before church.

Wow. That dialogue was almost completely unnecessary.

I have a folder of letters I've written to my brothers while they were on their missions. I also have saved all of my update letters mailed out to family and friends approximately four times a year, titled Daley Record of Events... or D.R.E. I've decided to scan in all of my written letters and typed updates (that I haven't previously had stored) and put them on my thumb drive. I've opted to post one today for your reading pleasure.

I hope it brings you happiness on this wonderful weekend.

Indiana Jones/Dr. Pepper Hat Prize

I got a pretty sweet surprise in the mail the other day. It was my totally kick "a" Indiana Jones/Dr. Pepper Hat Prize. Luckily, the hat doesn't say anything about a crystal skull or else I might have thrown it away. Indiana Jones 4 totally sucked. But the hat is sweet and it smells like Dr. Pepper.

Our Weekend

I almost called the doctor today to see if he still had the opening on Thursday to perform my vasectomy. Seriously... I almost did. I didn't... but I almost did. Our boys got sick on Memorial Day. Luckily our holiday plans didn't involve leaving our own property so we didn't have to cancel anything. My wife hates our sectional couch, but it worked out great for our two sick kids. She thinks it's too big and looks ridiculous, but we can't afford to buy anything new or anything made of cow, so we're stuck with this couch we got for free from a friend of mine who told me I could have it so long as he could give it to me "as is". Come to find out "as is" means completely covered (completely covered [yes I felt it necessary to type it twice]) with dog hair. Dog hair in every nook and cranny... every square inch of surface area, including unexposed surface area. I bought a 10-pack of lint rollers from Costco and Betsy and I used every single sheet from all 10 rollers. Then we vacuumed and shampoo'd the thing twice. The next day Boston peed on it.

My boys got sick yesterday. It started as a fever. I was in the kitchen when my wife yelled, "He's throwing up! Get a bowl!" By the time I got the bowl and made it in to him, I caught about 1/2 cup of sweet smelling vomit in the bowl. The other three cups were in Betsy's cupped hands, on the couch, on the blanket, all over Boston's right arm and puddled in the crevasses of Boston's pajama top. I kept trying to reassure Boston that it was no big deal. I had to breath out of my mouth when I carried Boston into the bathroom and had to touch his puke dripping sleeves to get his shirt off. Most of the throw-up from his shirt ended up in his hair by the time I had him undressed (I actually contemplated cutting the shirt off like the EMT's do when someone has a serious injury). Then I had to drain the bathwater after he got in cause there were so many chunks. I almost decided to just let the water stay in the tub, until I saw the yellow cloud forming around his wiener, since I didn't have time to let him pee before getting the vomit rinsed off him.

Three days ago, Tyton was waking up in the morning, stretching and talking to Boston who was standing by his bed. Then Tyton yelled, "Boston is pooping!" After I sat Boss on the toilet (with his Blues Clues seat acting as a booster), I started picking up rock-hard turds with Kleenex trying to make sure I didn't miss any. Then I noticed the puddle of urine on the carpet where Boss was standing. I could hear Season crying in the other room and Betsy was trying to soothe her. Tyton decided he wanted to help soothe her, as well, so he got out of bed and smushed a couple of the turds into the carpet and tracked them into our bedroom. Then he stepped onto the bed frame while saying in his "It's okay" voice, "Are you okay, Season? Why are you sad?" Then his foot slipped and Tyton's face hit the window sill. Tyton starting crying and screaming that his nose was bleeding. I had a tissue in both hands holding squished Boston poo and Betsy was holding Season in one arm, Tyton had his hands cupped under his nose and Boston was sitting on the toilet CLAIMING he didn't have to poo anymore.

How was your weekend?

The Vasectomy Monologues: Part 3

My wife and I were married in September of 2001 and by February of 2002, she was pregnant with our first kid. It was planned, though, I promise. We both wanted to have children and it made the most sense for us to have them as soon as possible. Since we had only dated for about 3 weeks, ultimately we didn't have much time to really get to know each other before the mood swings and nausea started. Over the last six years whenever we think about the first chapter of our marriage, we seem to drift toward the same question: Should we have waited to start our family until after we'd had a chance to get to know each other?

I think we did things the best way we could have. But every time I think about our future, I think ahead to the day when our children will be grown-up and on their own. Betsy and I will be able to go on cruises and vacations as a couple that we never had a chance to do when we were in our early 20's. Our kids will be adults and we'll still be young enough to enjoy each other's company... hopefully.

So whenever we have another child, the "18 year" stopwatch starts all over again. Right now, we'll both be almost 50 when Season is old enough to go to college or get married or move out or something. If things work out the way I'm planning, I'll have the summers off to spend with my wife and we can hang out with our kids and their families.

Betsy also has pretty rough pregnancies. They're not really DANGEROUS pregnancies... they're just really hard on her. When a pregnancy is hard on a wife and mother, it also makes for very trying times for the husband and children. We also recently moved into the house we'd like to live in for the next 50 or so years... and it only has 3 bedrooms with the possibility of adding a fourth at some point. So with three children, it works out pretty well. They can each have their own room when they hit their teenage years.

Betsy stays at home and takes care of the house and children and I work for the government. I get the occasional "cost of living adjustment" on my paycheck, but we are not in a position to be able to afford a large family. We are in the unfortunate situation to need to decide whether we should have more children and have yearly vacations in our backyard in a tent, or stop having kids and be able to afford an annual road trip or Disneyland adventure. For some, the decision would be easy (and different depending on who you are), but for us it's been tough.

There are other reasons we've decided to stop having children, but these are the least intrusive and more obvious ones.

Three days ago I was standing in my kitchen looking out the window at my two boys playing on the rope swing hanging from our apple tree in the backyard. My wife had just put Season to sleep in the crib and she walked up behind me and we both watched our kids playing. I told her how happy I am to have such a wonderful family and how blessed we've been to have such healthy and handsome children. She agreed and expressed her satisfaction with how well we've done with our life and with our family. I said something about how much fun it's going to be when Season is old enough to play outside with our boys. We both laughed at the mental image of watching Season learning to walk and stumbling around in the backyard with her two big brothers. Betsy said something about the size of our yard and how relieving it is to have so much space for our kids to play. Then I asked if she could picture any more kids playing in the backyard. She smiled and started walking into the bedroom to check on Season when she said, "Yeah... I could have one more."

This shocked me quite a bit. I followed her in to the bedroom and we started having a complicated conversation that still happens to be going on... on and off. All of the same reasons exist for wanting to be done, but we've been able to dismiss most of them by using fairly simple logic.

Our three kids are about 2 1/2 years apart each. So even though it's tempting to get my vasectomy now, we've been wondering if it makes more sense to wait until the time we'd normally be wanting to get pregnant again (in about 2 1/2 years) and then see how we feel. The problem with that rationalization is we can both picture ourselves wanting another baby... and another baby... and another baby. We've been wondering if we should use logic and common sense to make a decision like this or if we should use our gut/heart/spiritual prompting.

Since this conversation started three days ago, Betsy is still saying she feels like we're done. I also feel like we're done, but it scares me to think that I'm deciding NOW (with my vasectomy) to have the future decision taken away. I want to be able to decide in three years if I want another baby. I don't feel like I should have to make the decision now.

I called the Doctor and canceled my vasectomy. I was wondering if I was going to be able to type this blog post in such a way where I didn't seem like too much of a wuss. For the record, I'm not scared of the doctor messing with my balls and sticking a huge needle into my scrotum. I'm cool with that. I'm just not ready for the side-effects of the doctor messing with my balls.

Stay tuned for Part 4... coming in 2 1/2 years.