Birthing Plan

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by Topher Clark (bio)

I feel strongly impressed to write about what a man is supposed to do to help his wife in labor. The problem is that I'm the worst at birthing. You would think that, having been through it five times, I would have some kind of insight into how to make the baby come out easier, or stop the screaming, or make the nurses come to the room any quicker when you push the button. I've taken the Lamaze class so I should have some idea about how to help, but that was thirteen years ago and I only remember that you are supposed to get all up in your wife's face and count, and I have since learned that this is NOT A GOOD IDEA.

Which leads me to think that I would be more effective at giving pointers about what not to do, since basically we men need to be completely unobtrusive during the birthing, whether we know it or not. It's really not about us, fellas. I know you took your little class and it's supposedly your baby, but still. This isn't your moment to call the shots and make "helpful" comments. Mostly you need to be present, positive, and accept whatever demands are made of you. These demands may include "please-hold-my-hand-and-let-
me-squeeze-yours-for-support," but they may also involve "Please-turn-the-channel-Glee-just-came-on-and-my-now-my-baby-won't-come-out."

All of my children were born in good old-fashioned hospitals. I know that women make many different birthing choices, and that these days anything goes as long as the baby eventually emerges. I respect that, but I should confess that hospital deliveries are all I know, so I will be very little help here to you gentlemen if your wife decides to give birth in a hayloft or on some kind of bobsled. You can take whichever of my suggestions fit your birthing plan, and I wish you the best of luck!

A Legacy in Progress

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by Ken Craig (bio)

I recently thumbed through a book titled Living a Life That Matters, by a Jewish rabbi named Harold Kushner.  And when I say I “thumbed through it,” I mean I “read the cover” and thought to myself, “What a catchy title!” I was going to start reading the book, I really was; but I am still only three DVDs into the second season of Chuck, and my friend is going to want his DVDs back pretty quick. Those episodes aren’t going to watch themselves, you know!

Living a life that matters. Hmm. Well, my wife claims my life matters to her. And, I’ll be honest, even without some daily barometer reading for how I’m doin’ at this little game called Life, mattering to my wife is kind of my main mission. Second only to mattering to my kids.

My seven children run from age 13 years old to several days overdue and showing no signs of arriving on the scene in the immediate future. They are delightful and adorable souls. They have only one distinct flaw, and this is it: They are far, far too observant of their dad’s behavior.

You have to wonder what kind of legacy you are leaving for your children when they make astute observations like, “I can’t wait to be a dad – you get to stay up every night eating ice cream and watching TV!” Apparently I have painted quite a picture of fatherhood for my three sons. “Yep, that’s all there is to it, my boys! You put in your time as a youth spending grueling hours making forts out of the couch and collecting farts in a mason jar; and then in a few short years, you’ll be living the high life with Haagen-Dazs and Seinfeld reruns. Life just gets simpler and simpler, I tell you.”

Six in the City: Subway Door-Hogs (or, Why Important People are Allowed to Break the Rules)

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by Max Power (bio) & May Jones (bio)

Max Power and May Jones live in Manhattan with one (paying) job, four children and zero dogs. They are mormons. These are their stories.

Max Power: So, once again this morning, my fiery indignation was kindled toward those people who seem to believe rules of social order are only applicable to them to the extent they are also convenient to them. Yes, as you probably have guessed, I am talking about subway-door-squatters.

May Jones: Ah yes, the “important” people who hover around the subway doors like they’ve been sworn to protect them. As if they won’t be able to nimbly hop off the subway in time carrying only their tiny man purses. Sure, block the way for those of us who have to muscle through the crowds with a four year old on each arm. We have a MUCH better chance of making it out in time! You don’t have to share the public transportation with 10 million other people. It’s all yours!

Max: (Sounds like I struck a nerve, May.) The best is when you get two such VIPs each occupying one half of the entry, leaving only a sliver of space between them. And then they just glance at you disinterestedly as you try to board/exit. “Oh, no, don’t move into the middle or anything. All 20 of us who have been waiting for ten minutes for this train will just grab the next one.” I mean, believe me (I frequent these trains every day) I know how desirable the door spot is. Unlike some people, though, I listen to the train driver repeating the same plea AT. EVERY. SINGLE. STOP: “Please step all the way into the train.” (Hint: she’s talking to you, door-hog.)

May: Why can’t people just be rule followers, like me? In the suburbs, it was the agony of the elementary school drop-off line cutters. You know the ones I’m talking about. And I’m sorry to say it, but most of the offenders were/are men. Why are their days more important than mine? Alright, so I’m not headed to Wall Street to change the world. But I am transporting a Cub Scout (future rule follower, like his mother) to his meetings and that should be worthy of some respect, amirite? These subway VIPs are also apparently concealing their secret lives in the theater, because you should see them roll their eyes and hear them make loud huffy noises when they have the incredible misfortune of getting stuck on the stairs behind a small child. Here’s an idea: go around! I’m sorry, but my daughters’ legs are twenty times shorter than yours, they can’t sprint down the stairs like there are free Krispy Kremes at the bottom. I admit, sometimes I’m really sold on the mob mentality and I grab both the girls so they’re clinging to me in an awkward hanging fashion and try to dash down myself, but not once have there been donuts. SO not worth it.

Max: I have to admit it—I am one of those platform-stair-sprinters; only I run out of the subway station. Maybe it’s the clean(er), fresh(er) air wafting through the openings just beyond the turnstiles, but the mere sight of the platform exit triggers an inner-animal instinct to race out of the subway and break into a Joseph Gordon-Levitt from 500 Days of Summer dance routine. But I definitely don’t huff when I see a four-year-old in front of me on the stairs. Let’s face it—given the relative scarcity of kids in this city, there’s a decent chance that any four-year-old I get stuck behind is one of my own. In fact, from the frequent reactions of people riding on the benches opposite us on our way to church Sunday mornings, you’d think a family with four kids deserves its own reality show.

May: Mmm hmm. They point, they gasp, again with the dramatics! Now I know what celebrities feel like, and it isn’t easy, you guys. All the staring, all the looks, everyone appraising your every move. I feel so exposed. No one stares at the guy walking four dogs in the park. Maybe I’m just walking all these children for other people. Yes, they all uncannily resemble me. Maybe that’s why the moms hired me.

Max: And it’s not just individuals—the Metro Transit Authority similarly has no idea how to process the concept of a family with more than 2 children. [Inside the prepaid MetroCard project planning meeting]: “Hey, Boss, we need to set a maximum number of swipes at one turnstile for the prepaid cards to keep people from selling bulk discount swipes on the black market. Pick a number... Let’s just do 4. Who on earth would ever need more than that?” [Cut to dad standing outside said turnstile frantically swiping his card for the fifth time after sending the four kids through, which kids are splitting off and heading for various wrong trains]: “*&$%, *$^#, @#%!”

May: So ... um ... maybe on occasion I have been guilty of standing right by the subway doors myself... But it’s a tough town! Survival of the fittest! (I’m important, too...)

Man Colds

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by Seattle Jon (bio)

For some reason, I think colds affect men more than other humans (women). I have difficulty with even the simplest of tasks, like getting out of bed, putting on clothes, washing the dishes or playing with the kids. More than once Charlie (aka wife) has called me out for being a baby when I have the sniffles.

Thanks to Britian, I now know that men suffer from Man Colds (note capitalization) and not the regular run-of-the-mill cold. When does "999" come to the U.S.?

What is My Modern Mormon Manhood, Anyway?

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by Josh (bio)

Me and my boys making cookies a few years ago.

My manhood and I have had always had an evolving relationship. I am not what most people think of as a typical guy. I am, generally speaking, not into "typical" guy things. I am not, nor have I ever been, an athlete. I don't watch any type of sport on TV, unless you count Top Chef. In fact, the only way I know that major sporting events are occurring is when Facebook lights up with everyone's commentary about whose team is winning or losing, or why Utah fans are better than BYU fans. Usually I am not sure what sport is even being played. I don't like camping. I prefer Nancy Drew to The Hardy Boys. I am confused by Home Depot (why do they need so many kinds of screws?) I have no idea what a jimmer is.

But I grew up in a home where manhood was more rigidly defined. I have five brothers and three sisters who are almost all athletes. When I was born, the second son, it was likely assumed that I would be an athlete too. I remember playing T-Ball when I was about six, and taking a golf clinic in my early teens. It was pretty much the end of my organized sports career. When I was a teen, my activity in the church was sometimes questioned. I went to all of my Sunday meetings, but rarely went to young men/scouts during the week. Most weeks they played basketball. Occasionally they worked on merit badges - neither one was really my scene. So no, I am not an eagle scout. (Sorry - do I get kicked off the blog now?) I remember once finding out that young men in my ward had been given the assignment to find out what I liked so they could plan activities that I would attend. I am grateful for that leader who wanted me to be involved, but also kind of chuckle that the idea of a boy who didn't want to play basketball or go camping left them so flummoxed.

In high school and college, I did theatre. I don't think my parents were expecting to have to come and sit through a lot of poorly done Shakespeare when they had a son, but they were always very supportive and never missed a performance. I am sure they sat through a lot of poorly done shows just for the 15 minutes or so that I might be on stage. But when I did Seven Brides for Seven Brothers, my senior year of high school, my dad was so proud when he watched me perform that he actually cried.

The Allure of Angry Birds

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by Seattle Jon (bio)

When a certified human factors engineering professional and president of a usability engineering and user interface design consulting firm speaks, we should listen (just because of the fancy title). Although you don't need to read the article to know that Angry Birds is addicting. You just need to know that I often stretch my bathroom visits in order to achieve a few more stars or find another elusive golden egg.

Stanley Bing, who can be found on the last page of Fortune magazine, goes several steps farther than I do. He seems to be turning into an angry bird. I wonder if our women are as addicted as we are?

Wikipedia (Angry Birds): here

Angry Birds shop: here
Angry Birds walkthroughs: here
Angry Birds movie: here
Wikipedia (Stanley Bing): here
Fortune magazine: here
Image via zero-lives blog

Going Beyond "Battles"

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by Saint Mark (bio)

Last night, after putting my sons to bed, I contemplated my interaction with them for the day. Having been apart for two weeks out of the past four because of business travel (me) and family reunions (wife and kids), I felt a distance growing between my six-year old son and me.

In my mind's eye, I thought I saw my death and afterwards my son, whom I felt the distance growing between him and me, reviewing the interaction we had before my death. It was not very memorable or uplifting. It consisted of prayers, scripture study, playing "battles" (i.e. setting up army guys for battle), and reprimands for his poor yet childish choices.

I realized that I did not want this to be his closing memories of our interaction here on earth. I wanted our relationship to go beyond "battles" and disciplining his behavior. Yes, the daily prayers and scripture study moments were important but because of his age and the age of my other son (four years-old), our family prayers were not very long and we could not read more than a handful of scripture verses with them. Thus, I did not find myself spending as much time with him as I wanted.

Without an abundance of time together, our relationship was deteriorating for a lack of love. This sentiment is captured best by President Uchtdorf of the First Presidency, who recently said, "In family relationships, love is really spelled t-i-m-e, time." (Dieter F. Uchtdorf, "Of Things That Matter Most," Liahona and Ensign, Nov. 2010, 22)

Before going to bed, I repented and prayed to God in the name of Jesus Christ for insights about what I could do to have better interaction with my son. As I meditated after prayer, ideas began to come to my mind. I wrote down these ideas which turned into a list of activities that my son and I could do that would go beyond "battles" and truncated, spiritual moments.

The list consists of simple things such as making a card together to send to his grandparents, playing board games together, sharing stories from when I was a little boy and listening to his stories, and creating lessons together for him and me to teach at Family Home Evening. As you can see, the dominant theme is doing something together that is positive and non-violent. In this way, I feel that our relationship will heal and become the close relationship it needs to be, that I want it to be and that I'm sure he wants it to be as well.

Being one of many modern mormon men is not easy, but I know it is worth it.