I had an interesting thought a few months back while painting a room for my wife. Typically painting in our house happens when we’re having house guests or entertaining on a major holiday. There’s some inexplicable reason my wife has for constantly generating projects around our house at those times. In any event, I was enjoying my chore of painting the unreachable areas of the walls in our dining room. While I was rolling away to my heart’s content, I was deftly aware of being critically careful to not drip paint on my hardwood floors. To avoid such an event which would most likely lead to a fanciful flurry of curse words, I spread out our old drop cloths across the floor for protection.

As a finished up my painting, I looked down at the old drop cloths and had an introspective wisdom about the random splotches of paint on the drop cloth. Everybody has a drop cloth. They travel with you on your many moves and typically get dragged around room after room and paint color after paint color. These cloths see us in our darkest hours and brightest days. They also see us in our most creative states and also in the poorest of color choices. All in all, these drop cloths contain assorted splotches of drips and drops of paint that make up the palette of our life’s journey. Each drip marks a milestone, a room, a feeling, and an event that popped up in our travels.

I looked down at our drop cloth and saw so many colors from so many different things. When I sat and focused tightly on each color, I could remember just what room we painted, the reason for the color, the impetus prompting us to paint, and most importantly, just how we felt at that stage in our life. This concept to me seemed like a universally profound connection and we all relate to; a drop cloth can tell the story of your journey.

The smear of a burgundy crimson reminded me of our very first home purchase, a condo in Signal Hill, California. We kind of stumbled onto this place. We originally were looking for a rental and stumbled onto a harsh real estate agent by seeing her sign in Long Beach. We cold-called her and the rest was history. That condo was such a nugget of a spot; poolside, view of the harbor, kick ass neighborhood, and our first place. The master bedroom was painted in this rich burgundy color with cream and light blue accents. Ahhh, where the magic used to happen.

What drove us back to Washington was not just a car, but loss; 2004 for with my bro and 2005 with her mom. In 11 months, who would’ve thought? My wife was pregnant with Son #1, and we just bought our first house in Washington for less than we sold our condo in California. It was new construction and a blank slate. The drops of light blue on the drop cloth reminded me of that first room we painted in our new house. It was Son #1’s bedroom. I still remember struggling to put the dinosaur treatments on the wall. I can remember building the crib in that room, I can remember putting him to bed in his ‘big boy bed’ only to have him come running down the hall in the middle of the night because he was scared. No sleep but so much love. That blue color marked a turn to happiness despite the losses. I know our angels loved it.


Then there was the room across the hall in that house. It was Son #2’s room. But it started out as my wife’s ‘craft room’ to which I was reminded by the splotches of lavender on the drop cloth. It was chick-like and I was reminded that it wasn’t my room. But ultimately, Son #2, the improbable kid, joined us. It was repainted with a soft green and beige with a white chair rail. The drops of those colors reminded me of the cussing about how many times I had to paint that room to cover up the lavender and install the chair rail. But there was a little bit of satisfaction when the baby furniture was arranged. I remember the crib mobile music playing over Son #2 as he fell asleep. Would’ve never thought that such an unanticipated surprise would bring us so much joy and terror.


The overspray of fluorescent colors on the drop cloth marked an epic Halloween. I got the wild hair up my ass to go big on my wife’s favorite holiday. Before anyone jacked my originality, I created my version of Johnny Depp as the Mad Hatter in Alice and Wonderland. I did it before the movie came out and spent a lot of time on the intricate details. The sashes, the hat, the jacket, all hand crafted. My wife was Alice and due to readership here I won’t provide my review of her costume but will pass on that it was ‘popular.’ The Mad Hatter costume including the elaborate makeup was a blast to don. I even won a Seattle Times costume contest.


And over six years later, I’m reminded of the new bedroom in our new house by the light forest green smear on the cloth. Son #1 got to pick his room in this house and the room color. I wanted to give him ownership of it; the freedom to choose and create. He helped me paint his walls, well at least for five minutes before he took off running and screaming with his brother. This is our new house, where we’ll establish new roots and new memories. Where new paint spills and splotches will create the mural of the latest chapter of our life.


It’s an odd concept, but the random assortment of paint drops just got me thinking and reconnecting with those memories. And as I reconnected with those memories from all of those years, I couldn’t help but get a little nostalgic. The drop cloth is an unorganized palette of colors used paint the canvas of life. Each color has its own set of emotions and context. But all are used to paint your life’s version of a Rembrandt smeared together forever; or at least as long as you have the drop cloth. After studying our drop cloths, I began to realize the complexity and intricacy of the journey. I think it’s pretty easy to lose sight of how far you’ve traveled given that we typically don’t have a broad perspective on the future. Mostly, we view each moment as its own unique instance and don’t seem to consider the larger gallery of life. Painting the dining room for another event while annoying, allowed me the opportunity to see all of our history in random palette of splotches.

Now that the holidays have concluded and a bit of normalcy is about to return; and by normalcy, I mean working ungodly hours and not getting the time to capture my thoughts and experiences on this blog. Son #1 has headed back to the public school system of this fine town in which we live. This marks the end of the holiday season and means that the Man is reinserting his foot up my proverbial ass.

But while we’re on the subject of Son #1, let’s discuss his innate ability to create the most interesting conversations. This isn’t the first time I’ve discussed this topic on this platform. However, December had its instances of Son #1 wisdoms. The kid is, as they say, is smart as a whip. But what exactly constitutes being as smart as a whip? Whips are inanimate which by definition would mean lacking some sort of cognitive capacity. Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to say he’s as smart as geek juiced up on Red Bull and Sour Patch Kids?

Anyway, I was reminded of his whip-like smartness while installing a new exhaust system on a friend’s truck. While trying to remove the OEM exhaust, we broke off the exhaust bolts at their attach points. Mostly this was due to corrosion of the bolts and a gripping force comparable to a crackhead with a cheeseburger. While under the vehicle, Son #1 narrated and asked questions. Typically, this is annoying especially when you’re seriously intolerant of seized bolts. In any event, he carried on about the bolts and I explained that when the new exhaust was installed, we’d be using new corrosion resistant steel bolts and they would be tightened to an appropriate torque rating. And like clockwork several hours later as we were hanging the new exhaust, Son #1 was under the truck and reminded me of the appropriate torque rating for the bolts like a seasoned mechanic. A few weeks later, we were back in the garage installing a new billet grill on my vehicle. As I’m attaching some of the hardware, Son #1 has the balls to remind me that the fasteners have a torque rating which I can find in the installation guide.

It’s not that he remembered that I introduced the concept of torque and that he was able to regurgitate in another installation instance, it’s the fact that he now understands a multitude of concepts and can read a ton of shit. This really complicates life. Occasionally, the boys and I have dinner together without my wife. She has professional obligations which take her out of the house around the dinner hour. This gives the three of us the freedom to have creative dinners like chicken fingers and frozen waffles. More importantly, we have some really entertaining conversations.


One night while we dined on fine frozen foods, Son #1 pondered with the facial expression of one in deep thought about life’s problems. Once ready, he spoke up and asked me a question which he put much thought into because it was a concept very dear to me. Music. With some random digital music channel providing the soundtrack to our discussion, he first asked if I liked the song that was playing. Ironically, it was a pop music channel left on by his mother. This prompted me to provide a sarcastic response explaining that it was most likely his mother’s favorite because it played at her senior prom. Once past my attempt at humor, to which he was not amused, we got to the main event.

He asked me what my three favorite songs were. While this may seem trivial to some, this was quite important to him knowing my natural affinity toward music in our life. Adding to the importance of the moment, I could hear my wife’s voice annoyingly chirping in my ear about not blowing him off. Unfortunately, I’m an ass and I have a ‘tendency’ to not listen (read: care) at times. It was very important to me to make sure I answered his question sincerely and thoughtfully.

And interestingly enough, I wasn’t able to answer his question. Not because it was insanely difficult and my meager brain was taxed to the point of malfunction. I just don’t have three favorite songs. I explained to him that music for me satisfies chapters and compartments of my life. It represents millstones along my journey and each song stuck in the ground at that mileage has an equally important contribution to my life. And because of that, all music and no music are my favorite. It was an opportunity to explain to him in simple terms that you don’t have to have a favorite in anything. It’s OK to like things equally. Still I didn’t feel like I answered his question as he was left with a puzzled look on his face.

He went on to tell me that he had three favorite songs. What floored me were his choices of songs and the reasons behind them. His first favorite is Green Day. Yes. This is a band. However, Son #1 has the ability to pick nearly any Green Day song out of a mix. Probably has something to do with the amount of Green Day Rockband played in our home. Son #1 knows my liking for said band and game, wants to be like me and generally likes anything to do with the color green. The second song was the ‘bike movie song.’ Because we watch more bike movies than the evening news, both Son #1 and Son #2 are as drawn as I am to these movie soundtracks. And last but not least, the third favorite song. While both kids profess the desire to be like dad, Son #1 couldn’t leave his mother out of this lineup. Music soothes the savage beast? Yes and it also calms down the unreasonable fit-throwing freakshow child. Son #1 used to, and still does find comfort, in infectious urban music. Enter favorite #3, “Sexy Back” by Justin Timberlake. My wife used to play this to him in the car to chill him out. And now, it’s the comfort music for the car ride with mom. Still a shocking choice given the first two.

And just like that, he provided me comprehensive and complete answers. While he may be able to have complex conversations, if he would just listen when I ask him to clean up the bonus room so the sea of toys in the floor no longer masks the carpet, we would have the perfect kid. Of course it's still a work in progress with him. Like when he scribbled with sidewalk chalk on my garage walls, lied that he didn’t do it, and blamed Son #2 for the damage. He was smart; the scribble looked like the abilities of Son #2. However, he failed to realize during his lie that the scribble was at his height and not his little brother’s height. The evidence incriminated the young punk and he had no choice but to clean it up.


And before I finished editing this blog, Son #1 struck again. One of our dogs escaped our backyard and went on the lam. She caused a ruckus at the neighbors plucking feathers from poultry in her own special way. And as a reward, animal control came and took her to the doggie 'big house.' I got the honor of bailing my mutt out of jail and filing her papers as a ‘dangerous’ breed of canine. Let’s not forget she’s a sled dog. Anyway, one of several methods we’re using to contain her in our yard is an invisible fence and collar transmitter.


The installation of this invisible fence went as planned but its initial operation didn’t. I won’t bore you with the details of the extensive tests to uncover the issue. I’ll just let you know that I had the battery backward in the collar transmitter. Excitedly, I told my wife that her braniac husband fixed the fence and to tell Son #1 of our shared victory. When he came outside to witness the greatness, he told me that he explained to his mom prior to coming out that I need to ‘read the instructions first.’ Nice. Thanks for the advice.