The boys had their first day of school this week. Don't they look happy about it?

Hey, everyone. Steven here. Check out the new family picture. That's Larami's new boyfriend. His name is Kid Cudi. (Pronounced: Cu-dee) He's one of these new-ish internet rappers. She's even got the boys singing his songs. (Admittedly, that part is kind of cute.) Apparently, they've been dating for some time. I'm heartbroken. I guess they do make a nice looking couple though. Whatever.

-S

Dear Parp,

Technically, this is my third Father’s Day.

Caleb and Braxton were born on Father’s Day in 2007, so I’m pretty sure that counts as one. Larami bought me a Swiss Army knife to celebrate the occasion. I had wanted one for a really long time, so I was stoked when I got it, but, in retrospect, it seems like a really weird way to have commemorated that juncture of my life. It was basically like, “You’re a father now, Stevie. Here’s a knife.” She’s a sweet kid. And I love her dearly. I slit my thumb shortly thereafter while I was trying to open a box of taco shells or something with it. I was not built to handle tools, I suppose.

At any rate, compared to you, I’m a Father’s Day novice. You’ve seen 28 of them, and each one of them has passed with its own varying degree of crappy gift; there was a four or five year period in the ‘90s where every internal conversation I had with myself about what to get you for Father’s Day/Christmas/Birthday ended with the same well-intended but nonetheless poorly surmised conclusion: a Dallas Cowboys hat. At eleven years old, I couldn’t see how you could possibly live aptly without 23 Dallas Cowboys hats. I’m not sure how many heads I thought you had.

Anyhow, when I got to thinking about it, I realized that, with regard to my gift selections, I, in fact, was not a retard. There were two key factors that skewed the reasoning behind why you always received the same, horrible presents:

1. I was a kid, and historically kids are terrible gift-givers. You know what I got last year from my boys for Father’s Day? A painting. They can barely feed themselves now, so you can imagine how honed their painting skills were at one year old. I heard Braxton spent a good portion of the endeavor eating paint.

2. I didn’t really know anything about you. Or, at least, I thought I didn’t.

See, when you’re a kid, you need things stated to you explicitly*. That’s just the way they work.

(*Larami will argue that I still need these cues. And with regards to that subtle, relationship-y stuff, she’s right. For the life of me, I just don’t know how anyone can know that “Yes, I want to go see Blade II with you” means “No, I do not want to go see Blade II with you, and you’re a moron for assuming I would.” Incidentally, she really, really liked the movie. So there.)

And to that point, I don’t really remember any time where you sat me down and were like, “X is my favorite thing to eat, and Y was the most important person in my life when I was growing up, and Z is how my time in the Army affected my life’s trajectory.” I mean, I assumed you thought about those things, and maybe even discussed them with mom, but since you were content to never make yourself the center of any conversation with me, Sis, or Stash, I was left to my own powers of deduction.

And from what I could gather, I knew that (a) you really, really liked the Dallas Cowboys, the Spurs, and Stevie Ray Vaughan, and (b) you really, really disliked sideburns.

It was always easier to find a store that sold hats than it was to find a store that sold stuff targeting people who did not like sideburns, thus, your unfortunate hat collection.

I realize now that that reticence to talk about yourself (a trait I did not inherit, but have learned to model in spurts) is also evident in the way that you father your children; fortunately, it’s a tactic that’s considerably more effective with larger ideological principles.

I never remember a specific moment where you said, “This is how a man behaves,” or “This is how a man treats a woman,” or “This is how a man provides for his family,” or “This is how a man acts with ethics,” but they’re all things I’ve learned from you, and I suspect that that may have been your intention.

I remember this time you and I went to a Spurs game when they played in the Hemisfair Arena. I don’t know who they were playing or if they won or not or even what month it was (I know it wasn’t April or May, because they were never in the Playoffs back then). But I remember there was a possession when the Spurs were on offense, and the ball got batted back towards the other team’s end of the floor, and one lone Spur who decided to chase after it. (I'm not sure which Spur it was exactly, but it sure as shit wasn’t Terry Cummings. Remember him? I wasn’t even a teenager but even I understood that by 1992 he was too slow to reasonably be in the NBA.)

Anyway, the ball gets batted back, one Spur takes off after it, and when he realized that he wasn’t going to catch it by running, he dove for it head first like a madman. He missed by a mile. It wasn’t even close. But the arena broke into cheers. And I asked you, rather unimpressed with what had just been transpired, “Why are they cheering? He didn’t even get it.” And you replied, “Because he tried, Steven.”

It took me fifteen or so years to figure out what you meant, but I eventually did. I try now, dad.

And remember when I first started driving and you all bought me that gawdawful blue Ford Escort and I scratched the crap out of the passenger side door against the fence when you let me pull it into the driveway? I got out of the car and was mortified. You looked soooo mad. You looked madder than when I caught the house on fire when we lived on Solar and then just went in my room and went to sleep without telling anyone.

After I scratched the car I ran inside and started crying. A couple minutes later you came in my room and were like, “Come on.” I just looked at you. I didn’t want to go back out there. I was certain you were going to beat me with the car. And you said something that has morphed in my head into, “What? You’re gonna quit every time something bad happens?”

There are a ton of those moments; something monumental that you said or did that I didn’t understand –or couldn’t understand- until I had my own son(s).

You’re a leader, Parper. You provide for your family and act with morality and walk with purpose and love your wife and children without reservation, and never once have I seen you beat on your chest or bask in your accomplishments.

Day in and day out, I know exactly what to expect from you: you’re going to get up, keep everyone alive, go to sleep, and then do it again the next day. You’re like the sun.

I know things about life (and about you), even though you didn’t say them. I know only cowards lie. I know never to steal. I know that a man must always act with decency. And I know that if he doesn’t do those things, he must be willing to account for that. But maybe more importantly, I know that these aren’t things I can simply say to my own sons.

I have to be able to drive all the way from San Antonio to Houston after I get off work because they tell me their car is broken, crawl underneath it, tap on the gas reservoir, then get out, look at them, shake my head, and say, “It’s out of gas, son,” and then never mention it again. (I was not built to drive cars either, apparently.)

Simply put: I know how to be a father.

I love you immensely for that, Parp.

Happy Father’s Day.

Love,

Steven

I've been getting hate mail regarding the posting of birthday pictures so here you go. Truth is, I took very few pictures. It was a busy two hours but SO much fun. Thank you so much to all of you who came out to celebrate with the boys-you really made it a special day!

My poor husband just informed me that he checks the blog every day during his lunch break at work to see if I've added anything new. Usually I haven't. Don't know about you guys, but that image breaks my heart a little so here I am posting on a Saturday when I really need to be doing laundry and buying diapers and washing the mud off of my feet. Not sure why I have so much mud on my feet.

I often get asked the question "Do they play well together?". They do play together. As for the "well" part, not so sure.

The Chevy Traverse Mommy Madness contest has begun! There are countless reasons you should visit http://www.mommymadnesshouston.com/, but since us moms are usually pressed for time, I will only list four of them.

1. You can get a MASSAGE for FREE. Test drive the Chevy Traverse and they will send you to Massage Envy for a one hour massage. I'm not kidding.

2. You can WIN a TRIP to a SPA RESORT! Vote for your favorite mom (her name is Larami) and you are automatically registered to win the trip. You can vote (for Larami) up to 3 times.

3. I can win a trip to the aforementioned spa resort as well and I really, really, really need it. By the way, today I got punched in the eye with a monster truck by not one, but two toddlers. I know, fool me once...

4. This reason probably should have been first, but the car is actually quite amazing and you should really check it out. Stay tuned for a list of reasons the above statement is true.

So go ahead, visit http://www.mommymadnesshouston.com/ and vote for me! I'm the brown one.

Last night we took our new Chevy Traverse for a spin to a celebratory dinner at Star Pizza where the boys ruined yet another romantic dinner for two lucky lovers (at some point Caleb launched a toy car their way and ordered the gentleman to retrieve it for him). Before heading out we decided to let the boys inspect their new vehicle. They're a little less difficult to read than their dad*. See for yourself.

*The ladies at CBS Radio were dying to see Stevie's reaction when he finally saw proof that this was indeed not a scam. If you know Stevie, you also know not to expect much in the way of lively reactions. So needless to say, when he walked up the stairs to greet the family, his reaction was "Is that your new car? Cool. It smells good.". Gotta love him.

The boys and I spent the first half of the day at the Nature Discovery Center. We had a blast but somehow by the time we made it to the end of the trail, both boys were shirtless. Weird.

So last week Grandma called to let us know she had picked up a few Cars-themed items for the boys (since their fondness for them has grown into a bit of an obsession). Imagine my surprise when I opened two boxes and Lightening McQueen himself literally came expolding out of them. Things were actually TALKING to me as I tried to pull them out (where on earth do you find a talking t-shirt?). Caps, lunch kits, clothes, pj's, toys, all jam packed in those boxes! The boys are sleeping right now but when Stevie gets home we'll try to video tape the unveiling of the Cars shrine. But it seems that every time we break out the camera for what we expect to be a priceless reaction to something, they just give that blank, droopy lip stare and we end up feeling all let down. So no promises that video will make the cut. We won't be giving them all the goods at once - maybe half now, the other half when Grandma and Papa comes to visit in a couple of weeks so they can witness the reaction firsthand. That talking shirt is definitely one I'll be saving for your visit, Grandma ;). Seriously, thank you so much for everything you sent them. It's far too much but we really do appreciate it and I know the boys will too. They're going to LOVE IT! THANK YOU!!!

We finally managed to get to the rodeo this week. Luckily we were able to beat the spring break masses by getting there early on a Thursday morning. The boys were mesmerized from the start- in fact our trolley ride to and from the parking lot proved to be the biggest hit of the day (knowing this will make next year's trip significantly cheaper). As far as who enjoyed the events of the day the most, well, the pictures sort of speak for themselves.

This blog will be password protected. Just email me and I will give you the login information. And here's a little blast from the past:)

10/07


2/09

Steven here. A few videos to tide you over.

This is very much what I imagine it sounds like when angels weep.

Braxton's got the basic concept down, but he's not so great with the putting of the hands in the gloves. Caleb? Well, he'll try to hit you with just about anything. (Notice at the :20 second mark when he tries to clunk mama in the head with that terribly annoying rolling-clicking thig.) He's more of a use-your-surroundings type of fighter. A young Jackie Chan, if you will.

They're watching the beginning of Cars here, and there are three things I'd like to point out: (1) Caleb's socks, which are, in case you didn't notice, not of the same pair, (2) Braxton's socks, and (3) Larami's 1984 San Antonio Spurs sweater. I'm fairly confident that that sweater has belonged to at least eight other people. (But it's never looked better, I assure you.)

They almost -almost- get off the floor, which means they're already jumping higher than their Uncle Chaz.

Look at those winning smiles.

Little devils, little men

Here are a couple of pictures of the boys in case you guys forgot what they looked like. They're getting way too big, way too fast.

Caleb


Braxton...and I have no idea what those tetris blocks are on the corners of this picture. Kind of creepy.

Enjoy your day!

Christmas pictures as promised.