Finding Elvis

First, I have to admit that I was never really a fan of Elvis Presley. My mother was more into the old "Big Band" orchestras, like Glen Miller and Tommy Dorsey. Later, she introduced me to Frank Sinatra, Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, and bought me the first Beatles album. I was more of a Led Zepplin, Rolling Stones kind of kid. My earliest memory of Elvis was his "Aloha From Hawaii" television special in 1973, when I was 13, which I watched with my family, along with a billion other people. While I did like his showmanship, I never gave him much thought, never bought any of his music, and wasn't impressed by his movies, although I thought he was a very handsome man, and couldn't understand why he divorced Priscilla.  I knew his last performance was at Market Square Arena in Indianapolis, was addicted to prescription drugs, and that he died sitting on the john. That was all I knew about Elvis Presley.


I've been all over the world, but never set foot in Memphis, Tennessee. I had a chance to do a job there, so I took it. Even booked a flight to get there early. My goals? To eat some good barbecue, drink a beer and walk down Beale Street, see the Sun Records building, and go to Graceland. I wasn't all that jazzed about going to Graceland, but if you've never been to Memphis, it's one of those things you have to do. Or so I was told.

I checked into the hotel, and headed for Graceland. It was only about five minutes away. I wasn't expecting much, and when I arrived there, I expected even less. It was a Thursday afternoon, so it wasn't very crowded. I paid $10 to park, then paid $34 for the tour of the house, the car museum and the airplanes. I thought maybe I could just walk across the street and up the driveway, but no, you have to walk past several souvenir shops, (and I do mean several, that's no exaggeration) and take a shuttle bus to the mansion. 


I'm sure when Elvis was alive, this section of Elvis Presley Boulevard was probably out in the sticks, but now, it's not exactly in a good part of town. While riding the bus up the driveway, I thought it was a nice front yard, but once I saw the front of the mansion, it was a bit underwhelming. Again, I wasn't expecting much, so I was in no danger of being disappointed. I was given an audio headset to wear during the tour, which explained everything I was seeing in great detail.


A brief description of the rules to be followed while in the house was given by the friendly staff, and inside I went. I was immediately frustrated when I saw the stairway was blocked by a rope and security guards. Absolutely nobody goes upstairs. Ever. Only Priscilla and Lisa Marie are allowed to go up there. Nicholas Cage was the only person allowed to go up there, but he was married to Lisa Marie at the time. The only other person allowed is a housekeeper who goes up to occasionally dust. Supposedly, it's been left in the same condition as it was the day Elvis died. I wanted to see the bathroom where he died, but no chance of that.



They do tell you that the bathroom is directly over the foyer, so all I could do is look up and imagine what it was like. I turned on my audio device and listened about the tacky looking living room, dining room and kitchen. Elvis did all of his entertaining on the first floor and basement. Not even guests went upstairs. Private guy, that Elvis. The famous "jungle room" was another tacky display of bad taste, but it reminded me of my days living in my parents house, which was equally as tacky, but with worse carpet. My mother had all the 70's avocado and burnt orange colored crap in her kitchen, but the black, brown, white and rust colored long shag carpet was terrifying. I had to laugh that my mother's taste in carpet was worse than Elvis Presley's, but that was what was popular at the time. 


The basement was more interesting. The pool room had an unusual motif, to say the least, and the tv room with it's purple and yellow colors wasn't quite as bad as I thought it would be. Three televisions on the wall, plus his stereo and record collection. That had to be his "man cave."

Walking through the "trophy and memorabilia" exhibits, I began to think a bit differently about Elvis. Listening to his audio soundbites, I found him to be quite charming and funny. His accomplishments in the music business were extraordinary, even though he didn't write most of his hit songs. The hallway lined with platinum records is breathtaking, I wasn't aware of how much success he actually had. Even more impressive was his movie career. I had no idea how many movies Elvis made. None of them were award winning, but he made a ton of them. He even made a movie with Mary Tyler Moore. Between the music and the movies, everybody wanted a piece of Elvis, and it seemed like they got it. He had the talent, the looks, the charm, everything. Unfortunately, it got the best of him.


He eventually quit making movies and tried to restart his music career, but it was too late. Sure, he had some very successful concerts, but he never regained the success he had earlier in his life. I was amazed that he only won three Grammy awards. Maybe he could've won more, but Elvis did what he wanted. People tried to talk him out of recording gospel albums and Christmas albums, but he recorded them anyway, and most of them would go platinum as well. Elvis was a man that did it his way. No wonder Frank Sinatra didn't like him. Elvis took away Sinatra's thunder.


The most touching part of the visit was the gravesite. There were actually old ladies (older than me anyway), crying at Elvis' grave. One of them in tears said, "I still love you Elvis." Now that's what I'd call a forever fan. Elvis is buried with his mother, father and grandmother. There is also a plaque on the ground for Elvis' twin brother Jesse, who died at birth. I didn't even know Elvis was a twin. Elvis even has an eternal flame. I thought President Kennedy was the only man who had one of those.

While I found Graceland to be rather unimpressive, I learned a great deal about Elvis. Much more than I ever knew. It's hard to believe, and very sad that Elvis was only 42 years old when he died. That is so young. He certainly did alot of living in those 42 years. I did enjoy his car museum, there were some priceless vehicles in there, as well as motorcycles, go karts and other things. He just didn't have enough time to enjoy them.


I lingered in front of the mansion for a bit, then took the bus back across the street, and toured the airplanes. He bought the "Lisa Marie" plane from Delta Airlines for $200k, then spent $800k fixing it up and customizing it. Impressive. I walked around both planes quietly, thinking about all I had learned about Elvis. I looked across the street, back at the mansion, and noticed the brick wall lining the sidewalk. I had to take a closer look. There were messages from people in all kinds of languages. Elvis was loved by the whole world. Some of those people probably came to this country just to visit Graceland. I felt guilty that I'd never given Elvis any credit for what he did for so many people. He was complex and tortured, but a gifted and talented man as well. A man who left us way too soon. He lived fast, died young, and left a good looking corpse. A Christian man, but rock and roll, all the way.

Before I left, I had to go to the Elvis Diner and have a grilled peanut butter and banana sandwich, with a Coca-Cola. In Elvis' honor, of course. Despite the tackiness, I enjoyed visiting Graceland. Not for the mansion itself, but for what I learned about Elvis Presley. I realized I didn't know him at all. I now understand why the people who did know him were so loyal to him. He was a very generous, good man. That's what I'm going to believe anyway.


I did see the Sun Records building, ate some good barbecue, and walked down Beale Street with a beer in my hand, but the highlight of my trip to Memphis was definitely Graceland. I'm now a fan of Elvis, but 40 years or so too late. Sorry about that Elvis, but at least your music will never die. After all, rock and roll lives forever. 

The Friend I Never Knew

In everyone's life, people come and people go. I'm still close with many of my childhood friends, and staying in touch with them is just a way of life. They don't care how much money I have or don't have, what I do or don't do, they just treat me the same way they always have. Whenever I see them, we pick up where we left off, almost as if I saw them the day before. Still little boys just trying to have some fun. I'm lucky to have friends like that.

Throughout my career, I've made many acquaintances, exchanged thousands of business cards, and made a handful of friendships. Friendships that originated through work, but evolved into a personal relationship. I value these friendships a great deal. It's nice to have dinner with a friend you're working with, and not talk about work. 

I met a man who came into my life because of work, but it didn't take me long to realize that he was going to be a friend, not just an acquaintance who breezes in and out of my life. This guy was going to stick around. I had no idea how true that would become.

I met Stuart Keene at 8am on June 25, 2010. Tragically, seven hours later, he was gone.

It’s taken me a little over two months to write anything about him publicly, and even now, I’m not sure I can explain the profound effect this man has had on my life. I barely knew Stuart, and despite all the sadness, I can’t help but smile every time I think of him. It’s good to know that I’ll smile at least once every day for the rest of my life.

I was preparing to make a trip to Denver for a motorcycle race that I was directing, and saw Stu’s name on the crew list as a local camera operator. I’d never heard of him before, so I made a call to one of my good friends, Jeff Kelty, to see if he knew who he was. He not only knew Stu, but was very good friends with him as well. Jeff assured me that Stu was a pro, and I wouldn’t be disappointed with his camera abilities. For better or worse, I always trust Jeff’s judgement, so I was looking forward to meeting Stu, especially since I knew we had a mutual friend in common.

When we met, Stu was more than happy to pile on and trash our mutual friend in his absence. I won’t go into detail, but we were ruthless. Jeff Kelty was our bond, and we took advantage of that to grow our new friendship. Poor Jeff was an easy target, and we ripped him to shreds every chance we got. It turned into a fun game, but we both liked and respected him a great deal, and nothing was said that either of us wouldn’t say to his face. By lunch time, I was a bit pissed that I never met Stu before, and we began making plans for the three of us to maybe go skiing next winter.

I was able to spend about an hour alone with him, walking around the track, looking at various camera positions, and told him he could have his pick of what camera he wanted to run during the show. He also filled me in on his career, which was stellar, to say the least. I was envious of all the great shoots he had worked on, which had taken him all over the world. I admired his positive attitude, and since he was a few years older than me, he gave me a bit of hope for the future of my career. I told him of my current frustrations with my job prospects, and he reminded me of some basic principles to keep in mind, not only for my career, but for my life as well.

I’ll never understand why things happen the way they do. That isn’t up to me. Nobody can control what happens no matter how hard they try. Like the old adage, “If if’s and but’s were candy and nuts, it would be Christmas every day.” You can drive yourself mad thinking about it.

I used to fear death. The “great unknown’’ that all of us will experience, no matter how hard we try to avoid it. One minute we’re here, the next we’re not. In the career I’ve chosen, I’ve seen way too many people die. Not like a doctor or nurse, in a hospital, under controlled circumstances, but unexpectedly and tragically. Sometimes horribly, right out of a nightmare. The biggest lesson Stuart Keene taught me, was to not fear death. Stu knew what was happening to him, and he faced it head on, with courage, and not an ounce of fear, as if he was beginning his next great adventure.

Stu’s death at the young age of 57 was extremely tragic, and for me, it has made me re-evaluate my faith, my beliefs and the way I’ll live my life. While I will continue to struggle with those issues daily until the end of my life, I know without a doubt, that death on earth isn’t the end. I’m certain, at the very least, we will live on spiritually. I know it in my heart. That’s what Stuart Keene taught me.

I’ve been overwhelmed by how many friends Stu had. He was a very special person, who loved life, and lived it to it’s fullest. I’ve enjoyed reading what his friends have said about him on facebook. Obviously, Stu was loved by everyone who knew him. I feel cheated that I didn’t get to be one of his good friends, but maybe that’s how it was supposed to be. His impact on my life is forever.

Not long after Stu’s passing, while I was still at the track, there was a beautiful rainbow which seemed to end at the spot where Stu left this earth. Everybody knows what’s at the end of a rainbow, and Stuart Keene was definitely a pot of gold.

Someday, I will see Stu again, and I'm sure we'll pick up where we left off, just like I do now with my childhood buddies. Godspeed, my friend. Try and save some adventure for me when I get there.......

Full Moon at 50

February 28, 2010, was landmark day for me. It was my diamond birthday, my 50th birthday. As we were driving home from a fun filled family birthday trip, I noticed there was a full moon. I contemplated the notion that this particular monthly celestial event could possibly be a good omen for me. Since it was, after all, my 50th birthday, to me, this wasn't just an ordinary full moon.


In 1960, the year of my birth, it was a leap year, meaning that the month of February had 29 days, instead of the normal 28. As legend has it, or should I say the way my mother always told me the story, she was worried I would be born on the 29th, and wanted to make sure I was out before then. February 28, 1960, was a Sunday, and there was supposedly a blizzard raging outside the Indiana University Medical Center in Indianapolis at the time. Due to some minor complications during labor, my mother had to be put to sleep in order to deliver me. I never knew the nature of the complications, so they must've been minor, and in the end, my delivery was normal. However, my mother's sub-conscience mind was very active during that time, and she dreamt of having a beautiful, baby girl, with a full head of hair and perfect skin. I have a sister who was born five years earlier, and the pictures reveal that she was a beautiful baby, with tons of thick dark hair, perfect skin, and a proportional body.


With those visions in her head, you can imagine that when she awoke, she was surprised to hear that she had given birth to a baby boy. When they brought me in to meet my mother for the first time, she rejected me, saying that they were giving her the wrong baby. My mother was convinced there was some kind of mistake, because she was sure in her mind that she had given birth to a baby girl. The nurses had to go get my father, who was in medical school at the time, and was actually present during my birth, to assure my mother that she did in fact, give birth to a baby boy, and I was the right baby.


My mother cried the first time she saw me, because in her words, and I quote, "You were the ugliest baby I'd ever seen in my life." I was long, very skinny, and not one hair on my head. My skin was pink and wrinkly, and my face was so scrunched up I didn't bare any resemblance to her first born, perfect daughter. The only good thing about me was that I didn't cry much, but to say my mother was disappointed was an understatement. She said she held me in disbelief, and asked my father several times if this ugly baby she was holding was really hers. I've always wondered if that first rejection had anything to do with the many psychological issues I've been dealing with most of my life. Probably not, I can't blame everything on the first few hours of my life.


It's taken me almost two months to put my 50th birthday into perspective. I'm not sure why. I have friends who have had problems dealing with the half-century mark. Others just remind me it's just a number and it's no big deal. "Keep on living and doing what you do." Makes sense, after all, there isn't anything I can do about it. 


So, after much contemplation, I've decided to not worry about it, because there is nothing that can be done about it. I have to live my life, keep working, and take care of my family. However, I can spice it up a bit.


It started with indoor skydiving, sort of a preparation for a tandem jump I'm doing later this year. Even with the fan cranked up all the way, I couldn't go up very high, but the instructor said it was the exact sensation of jumping out of an airplane. So, I think I'm ready. We'll see.


I'm also getting a tattoo this year. I've been designing one for over 20 years, and now that I've had all the children I'm going to have, it's time to finally do it. Not a large one, but it is very personal to me. I don't care what anybody thinks. Whether I'm an idiot, or immature, (most who know me would say both) I'm doing it anyway.


I'm not making a "bucket list" because I'm not planning on dying anytime soon. I plan on taking advantage of medical technology to extend my life. I will certainly live longer than my parents, hopefully. My goal is to see my children grow up, be able to take care of themselves, and see them be happy and successful. I'd also like to play with my grandchildren. Despite my late start, this is my desire. I'll be old, for sure, but grandparents are supposed to be old. I figure that if I start to live in daily physical pain, then the time is near. To be blunt, when I can't go to the bathroom by myself, it's time for euthanasia. Do you have a quality of life if you can't wipe your own butt? To me, no. It's time to go.


I've done some research on the subject of full moons, and what the native American Indians have said about it. In February 1960, the full moon was on the 12th, so I missed out on that. However, the "New Moon" phase was on the 28th, so me being new, and the moon being new, maybe there is something special in that. I have yet to find out an exact meaning, but it all seems good to me. What I do know, is that if there is a full moon on your birthday, it brings you good luck. So in my mind, a full moon on my 50th birthday is great news. Let's face it, no matter how you take it, your 50th birthday is a big day in your life.


Having the full moon on my 50th birthday was a special event for me, and I've decided to do things in my life I've always wanted to do. Skydiving, tattoos, travel to places I've never been, be happier, be a better father & husband, maybe even some mountain climbing, kayaking and high performance driving lessons in cars & motorcycles. I've already done a "2 up" ride on a race bike at Daytona at speeds up to 170 mph. That has definitely increased my interest in learning to do it myself.


In reality, 50 years old isn't middle age. 40 years old was middle age. At 50, they say your best years are behind you. I call bullshit on that, even though both of my parents died before the age of 70. While I most likely won't live to be 100, over half of my life is over, that is a simple fact. Having said that, I plan on living out the rest of my years with as much gusto as I can, packing in as much excitement as I can. What else can you do? I'm not going to sit around and wait for the bed pan. All great ideas of exciting things to do I will consider, no matter how risky or dangerous. I believe when it's my time to leave this earth, the good Lord will take me, no matter what I'm doing. When it's your time, it's your time. Life is good, it might as well be fun too.


My favorite quote of all time is from a fellow Hoosier, James Dean, and I couldn't agree with him more. "Dream as if you'll live forever. Live as if you'll die today." Very prophetic coming from a man who was tragically killed at the young age of 24, just beginning his rise to superstardom in the movie business. No surprise he lost his life pushing a high performance Porsche sports car to it's limits on a lonely stretch of road near Paso Robles, California.


So, full moon at 50? I'll take that as a very positive sign. I've had a great life, also a lucky life. I have a knack for being in the right place at the right time. Sure, there have been bumps in the road, mostly caused by me, but you live and learn. The first 50 years have been great. I've truly been blessed. Who knows? Maybe I'll get 50 more. If I do, they won't be boring. I can promise you that. 

My Father, My Son and Me

A series of events has happened in my family, that has made me remember certain things about my upbringing, and my father in particular.
My wife is taking classes for a computer certification, and my youngest kids are out of school during one of those weeks. Our youngest daughter, Sarah, is quite passionate about gymnastics, and she is going to gymnastics camp that week. My son Joe has been taking the gymnastics classes as well, but has lost interest, and will only attend three more classes, and isn't thrilled about the prospect of going to gymnastics camp.

The only thing Joe seems to be passionate about is snow skiing. That said, I came up with the idea of taking him to Colorado for a quick three day ski trip, which, at first was unacceptable to my wife. I can't blame her, after all, I did take him to New York the summer before last to see a Yankees game in the old Yankee Stadium before they tore it down. Tickets were hard to get, and I found an internet deal, but I had to buy two tickets. Long story short, it was a nice little father/son trip to the Big Apple. Just the boys, and it was great.

When the idea of a quick ski trip came up, it was an unpopular idea to say the least. My wife enjoys skiing, and Sarah seems to, but she's hardly passionate about it. Joe, on the other hand, will skip lunch to keep skiing, and cries when the lifts close. That's a passion for skiing! Joe has only skied in North Carolina, and Colorado would be a great experience for him. He has no idea of what its like to ski for over a half hour without getting back on a lift.

Having already set a precedent for father/son trips, and no idea of what to do with Joe for the week he's out of school, my wife relented, and gave me permission to take Joe to Colorado. I would love to take the entire family, but it just won't work out this time. Thinking of what a great time we're going to have, it brought back memories of my own father, and the good and bad times we shared.

My father passed away in 1996, and I thought I knew him fairly well, but it seems like the older I get, the better I understand and know him. He was a small town doctor, a general practitioner, and I was always known as the doctor's kid. He made a good living back in the 60's & 70's, and I never wanted for anything, but I couldn't support my family today on what he made. We had a swimming pool, lived in a nice neighborhood, and even had an airplane that dad would fly us around in, for family vacations and other short trips. Like most boys, I idolized my dad until I was about 7 or 8 years old, then everything changed. Even though my father never laid a hand on me, he was a strict disciplinarian, an ex-Marine Corps task master with a quick temper, and I feared him very much. I had a daily list of chores that had to be done to perfection. He yelled and intimidated me to tears. Despite that, he always told me he loved me every day. I never believed him. How could he love me and treat me so badly? More often than not, I disappointed him, and he would yell at me like a drill instructor, and I spent many nights crying myself to sleep. For years, I hated seeing him come home at night, and wished he would just stay away.

My father was old school for sure, and now I'm glad he was. He taught me how to be a man, how to be tough, and the importance of having a good work ethic, and to respect your elders, among other things. He wasn't my friend, he was my teacher, a teacher of life. While I'm not as harsh on my kids, I try to teach them some of the values he taught me.

One of the things my dad always did, was take me on a trip with him every year, just me and him. Sometimes, a few of his friends, but only the boys. Since my dad was a big time hunter, all the trips were hunting trips. He gave me a 20 gauge shotgun that was my grandfathers on Thanksgiving Day in 1969 or 1970, I can't remember the exact year, but it was a big deal. He was very serious about it, and it was time for the next generation to hunt with it. Our first trip was local, and we were hunting for rabbits. I saw one first, fired the shotgun, and actually hit the rabbit on the first shot. I don't remember the gun knocking me back or anything, just the thrill of hitting my target the first time. Problem was, I didn't kill it. It was screaming in some briar bushes, and my dad told me I had to finish him off. I raised the gun, but my dad said, "You can't shoot it, you'll put too much buckshot in it and we won't be able to eat it. You have to crawl in there and twist it's head!" Watching the rabbit twitching his legs and screaming in pain was too much for me, and I began to cry, and told him I couldn't do it. "Get in there and twist his head, you big sissy!" "Quit being a candy ass!" Those were a couple of the many things he was yelling at the time. Needless to say, I knew what had to be done, so I crawled in there and twisted the rabbit's head until it snapped. I was sobbing as I handed the dead rabbit to my dad, and he said, "For Christ's sake, quit acting like a little girl!" We then went home, and he showed me how to skin it and clean it. Being a doctor, he was very good with a knife, and I was impressed with his skills. He gave the rabbit parts to my mother, and she cooked it right up, and I must admit it was very good. While we were eating, my dad explained to me why hunting was important to control the wildlife population, and that you should eat everything you kill.

Later on, I became a fan of bird hunting, and every fall, my dad would take me to South Dakota for opening day of pheasant season. Those were great trips. I got to hang out with dad and his buddies, and I earned respect from all of them, because I was a pretty good shot, and rarely missed. When I was 14, I even went to a bar, and my dad let me have my first beer. Those father/son trips were the best, and for those few days he treated me like a friend, scolding me only if I missed a shot, or didn't clean enough birds. Once we got back home, he turned back into the asshole that I knew so well.

Once my dad retired and moved to Eufaula, Alabama, I would visit him and we'd go fishing almost every day. We'd have great conversations, and sometimes wouldn't speak a word. It didn't matter, I was spending time with him. Problem was, I had about a 2 day time limit with him, before he'd start his bitching and yelling about what it was that I wasn't doing right at the time. I'd just get in my car and leave, then call when I got back home, and he always acted like nothing happened. My dad never held a grudge. He'd get pissed, then get over it. I'd stay pissed for a few days, but eventually I'd get over it too.

My father was a very smart man, and I always sought out his advice, no matter what it was. I called him once a week, maybe more, if I needed his opinion on something, which he never hesitated to give out.
We grew to be friends, and once I was in my 30's, and finally doing well with my career, he said he was proud to have my as his son. He said he had his doubts at times, and that was why he was so hard on me growing up. Life isn't easy or fair, and he was only preparing me for the journey. I loved the man I used to hate so much, but I fully understood why he was the way he was. It just took me a long time to figure it out.

The last time I saw my father, he was in a cardiac intensive care unit, recovering from a heart bypass operation. He was his usual self, flirting with the nurses, and in a great mood considering what his body just went through. The doctors said everything looked great, and he had many years left. For some reason, I had a feeling that I'd never see him again. When I had to leave, I kissed him on the lips, something I hadn't done since I was a little boy. He smiled and said, "I love you and I'm proud of you, son. Now get your ass back to work!" I walked out of the room, then turned around to look at him one last time. He winked, and gave me a thumbs up. Maybe I was wrong, and he'd live another 20 years or so.

Sadly, that wasn't the case. My premonition was correct. A couple of weeks after he got out of the hospital, my dad died of a massive stroke. He couldn't take it easy, and was busy doing yard work on a hot summer day. My mother told me he came into the house, sat in his chair, and died quickly and painlessly, the way he always wanted to go. It was June 9, 1996, my daughter Taylor's 2nd birthday. I actually spoke to him that morning, and was planning on coming down for a visit in a couple of weeks. He seemed so full of energy on the phone. The man I hated, the man who raised me and taught me so much, the man who I grew to love and become friends with was gone forever. It's hard to imagine never seeing him again, even to this day. I have dreams about him yelling at me, and I suppose that's my subconscious telling me to man up when I'm slacking a bit. Who knows? I miss him very much.

My son Joe will never know his grandfather. At least he has one on his mother's side. Both of my grandfather's were dead before I was born, and I wish I could've experienced that. I know my dad lives on in my son, and I plan on having several father/son trips with him like my dad did with me, if my wife ok's it anyway. While they probably won't revolve around hunting and fishing, I do plan on spending time with him, and telling him stories of how my father raised me. Obviously, I won't use the same approach as my dad did, but I want to teach him the things he'll need to know in order to be a productive and respected member of society. Make sure he understands the importance of having a good work ethic, to respect his elders, and take pride in whatever he chooses to do for a career. To be responsible and to be a man, not a whiner or complainer.

We started with a trip to New York City, and a Yankees game. Next, a ski trip. I have no idea what will be next. Joe likes to fish, so maybe fishing. Maybe even hunting, after all, I do have a 20 gauge shotgun to pass down to him. I'll pass along what my father taught me, but with a different way of teaching it. That goes for my daughters as well. I want to spend alone time with them too. With my oldest, it's shopping. With my youngest, I haven't figured it out yet, but I can promise "undivided alone attention time" with all of them. I want them to know me, and I want to know them, and have the chance to live long enough to tell them that I'm proud of the way they turned out. I hope they spend time alone with their mother too. I think it's important to get to know your parents, individually as well as together. I can't speak for all parents, but my parents were one way when they were together, and totally different when I was alone with them separately. Being a parent is the hardest job you can have, but the most rewarding in the end. I can only hope that my children respect and love me as much as I did my dad. We will have some bumps in the road, for sure, but as long as they turn out to be adults that I'm proud of, It'll all be worth it.