For better or worse, I am a native Californian. I am like the 5th or 6th generation of Streights that has been born and raised in the Golden State. While I am proud of my heritage and I really like a lot about California, I guess the truth of the matter is that I just don’t think about it that much. When I met and married my sweet little southern belle from the great state of Texas, I became a lot more conscious of my roots. Like any nervous newlywed, I desperately wanted my in-laws to like me. Fully aware of the stigma that California is full of soft liberals, I was bound and determined to show Andrea’s family that I was no tree-hugger. I was just a cowboy who happened to be born out West.

The challenge with this strategy is that I am no cowboy. What is second nature to seemingly all Texans, including everyone in my wife’s family, is completely foreign to me. If necessary, I am 100% sure that every one of my in-laws – including my 4 year old nephew – could hunt, shoot, gut, skin, filet, cook, stuff and mount any wild animal, on their own, in order to feed their family. I, on the other hand, would quickly become a vegetarian if I was responsible for anything other than ordering from a menu. Thankfully, I have been blessed with wonderful in-laws who have been very accepting of my alternative lifestyle. That being said, I am fairly confident I saw a little part of my father-in-law die inside when he took me hunting and my weapon of choice was a pair of binoculars.

This past week, while on vacation with Andrea’s family in Breckenridge, I was presented with an opportunity to show the more rugged, cowboy side of me. Ever eager to impress, I jumped at the chance. As a group, we were going horseback riding, and I was excited about getting a chance to show how I could handle a horse with the best of ‘em. After all, I actually had some experience riding horses. Well, “riding horses” might be a bit of an exaggeration. Once, as a child I had ridden a crotchety, old Shetland pony we had somehow inherited. The ride didn’t last long as she almost immediately walked under a low branch to effectively scrape me off of her, but I was on for at least the requisite 8 seconds.

Despite my enthusiasm, I failed to realize that impressing my in-laws with my ability to do anything remotely Texas-ish is apparently not in the cards for me. The universe will not allow it.

As we waited to be partnered with our horses, I couldn’t help but marvel at just how strong the horses seemed. While I am not afraid of horses, I do have a healthy respect for them. They are big, fast, powerful and could stomp me into oblivion if they chose to. But today, I was ready to cowboy up. The weather was perfect, the scenery gorgeous, I was primed for a successful ride. And then I met my horse, Little Johnny.

Little Johnny was roughly the size of a sport utility vehicle.

I would be lying if I said my heart rate didn’t pick up a bit when I saw Little Johnny, but I tried to play it cool. No biggie, I had always wanted to ride what appeared to be a full-sized Clydesdale. It seemed liked the perfectly logical transition from the 3 foot tall Shetland pony I had “ridden” 20 plus years earlier. Even just getting into the saddle was a challenge. I nearly tore my hamstring trying to kick my foot up to the stirrup. Trying to be as graceful as possible, I saddled up. As if trying to control Little Johnny on my own was not going to be hard enough, it was somehow decided that my 2 year old daughter Kailey would ride with me. Undaunted, I grabbed hold of Kailey, got her situated in the saddle, and held on to the reins.

The best part of the ride, which also dramatically increased the degree of difficulty, was the fact that this was not the typical “5 horses tethered to a pole walking in a 20 foot circle” horse ride. This was an honest to goodness trail ride. We had a guide in front and in back, but each horse was free to do whatever they wanted to do. And Little Johnny wanted to eat. We had been instructed to make sure to stop the horses from putting their heads down to eat when they tried, but between holding Kailey in one arm, and holding the reins of arguably the world’s strongest, hungriest horse in the other, I was fighting a losing battle. I am a fairly strong person, but on countless occasions, every ounce of strength I had was still not enough to discourage him from stopping to eat.

“Kick him in the side when you yank up,” suggested one of the guides. Perched atop this mountain of a horse – a horse who already seemed to have issues with me – clinging to my baby girl, I thought that sounded about as smart as poking a sleeping bear with a sharp stick. Given his apparent dislike of my riding style, I was skeptical that kicking him in the ribs would win me any points, but I was out of options. I said a little prayer, kicked, yanked, and held my breath. Magically Little Johnny started walking. Almost immediately after starting, however, he turned and we made eye contact. I actually saw his expression change from anger to pity. I got the distinct impression that he understood that he was in complete control, and that there was no way I was going to “handle” him in any way that would even remotely impressed my in-laws.

About half-way into my 90 minute tug-of-war with Little Johnny, I began to notice that it was getting harder and harder to keep Kailey sitting upright. Somehow, in the midst of my groaning, straining, yanking and pleading, she had fallen asleep.

After I made some adjustments in the saddle to ensure that I had a firm grasp on her, I was basically left with only my right hand to try to control a mammoth horse that had apparently not eaten in well over a month. As if sensing my predicament, Little Johnny dramatically increased the frequency with which he stopped to eat. About every 30 feet, he would stop, yank his head downward, snicker and begin grazing. If you have ever tried to repeatedly lift a car that didn’t want to be lifted with your bare hand, while sitting 10 feet in the air and balancing a 30 pound sand bag in your other arm, with your father-in-law (whom you are trying to impress) patiently sitting behind you witnessing everything, then you have a sense as to the situation I found myself.

In between my frequent power struggles with Little Johnny, the ride itself was an incredible experience. The scenery was beautiful, the weather was perfect, and everyone was doing a great job on their horses. Tyler and his cousin Morghan, both only 5 years old, were riding their horses like old pros.

To be honest, with the exception of me struggling atop Mt. Johnny, you would have thought the whole group grew up on a ranch. Even Kailey, who had finally woken up from her nap, was thoroughly enjoying the ride.

Near the end of the ride, Little Johnny, either exhausted from my constant yanking and pestering or just wanting to prove a point, stumbled and fell forward on his front knees. He must have been embarrassed because, once he had regained his footing, he freaked out a bit and decided to buck and kick for a few seconds. To an objective observer, I am sure it was an innocuous little kick. But for someone tired, sore, and holding onto a 2 year old, it felt like I had entered a rodeo. I am proud to report that Kailey and I managed to stay on throughout the whole experience – an experience that over time will surely become at least a 30 second wild ride on a bucking bronco – and Little Johnny eventually calmed down.

To be safe, it was decided that Kailey would spend the rest of the ride with Granddad. As I admitted defeat and handed Kailey to my father-in-law, I swear I saw Little Johnny smile.

The last 10 minutes of the ride were pleasantly uneventful. I had both hands firmly on the reins, and anytime Little Johnny even thought about stopping to eat, I pulled on the reins, gave an authoritative kick, and we would mosey along. As we pulled into the stable, I was feeling a little better about myself. To a certain extent, I felt like I was on the right path towards redeeming even the tiniest bit of my pride, so I wanted to finish strong. While trying to dismount as gracefully as possible, I couldn’t for the life of me get my shoe unstuck from the stirrup. My “finishing strong” consisted of several agonizing moments working furiously to dislodge myself from the stirrup in an attempt to avoid falling on my face. Somewhat surprisingly, Little Johnny just patiently waited. Thankfully, I was able to ultimately dismount without further incident, but I think it is safe to assume that anyone watching would never confuse me for a seasoned cowboy.

This is not the first time in my life where my ego got in the way of reality. I guess I just got a little too excited trying to impress my Texas family. Plus, who wouldn’t want to be a cowboy? When push comes to shove, I think I could get a horse from point A to point B, but other than that, everything about my riding expertise screams “tourist”.

Things tend to work out better for me when I am honest about who I am, what I am good at, and what I am not. When I worry about trying to be something I’m not, it rarely ends well. Little Johnny reminded me of that. Repeatedly.

A few years ago, I worked with a guy named Tom, whom I greatly admired. He was an older guy, and he was perpetually calm. Tom was responsible for a lot, yet regardless of the challenge, issue or “crisis” at hand, I never once saw him get even remotely flustered. While the rest of us ran around, stressed out, screaming about this, that or the other, Tom would remain calm, seemingly oblivious to the chaos. Incidentally, in the 5 years that I worked with him, he never missed a deadline. As someone who tended more towards the “high strung” side of the fence, I was both fascinated and amazed by his ability to stay calm, cool and collected in the midst of all the pandemonium. Finally, I asked him his secret. His response both humbled, and changed me.

He said it boiled down to perspective. He wasn’t trying to downplay the importance of work, it was just that in his life he had faced far greater challenges. For several months of his life, Tom woke up every morning in the jungles of Vietnam fully expecting to die. He wasn’t being dramatic, he was just telling it like it was. As an infantryman, he and his platoon were on the front lines, constantly fighting for their survival. Almost every day, he was stuck in the middle of a jungle, half a world away from his wife, watching his friends get shot and killed, forced to deal with the reality of “kill or be killed”. He was 20.

I was blown away. I didn’t know what to say. For some reason, probably because I had never faced anything even remotely close to that, I felt small and petty. After a few moments of silence, Tom continued.

“Everyone has their Vietnam,” he said. “For a lot of people, it isn’t a matter of life and death, but for some it is. It’s all relative, but if you’re the one dealing with it, there isn’t anything more important in the world. Loss of a loved one, cancer, depression, addiction, war, we all have personal struggles that shape who we are and that help keep things in perspective for us. I guess that’s why I don’t really get too worked up at work. I’m just thankful to be alive.”

My “Vietnam” started on Father’s Day of 2008. A few days earlier, my son Tyler had started acting a little strange. Every once in a while, he would make a tense face, grab his stomach and make laughing/grunting noises. It only lasted 5 or 10 seconds, and then he would be fine. At the time, I didn’t think too much about it, after all, he was a 3 year old boy who was always acting a bit crazy.

But gradually, it got worse. By Father’s Day evening, his “episodes” were happening every few hours and he would seem tired, almost dazed and withdrawn for several minutes afterward. It was clear that something was very wrong.

I love being a dad, but I didn’t fully appreciate just how impactful my kids have been in my life until that night as we rushed to the emergency room. As Tyler’s episodes continued, I sat by his side trying desperately to comfort him. I could see the fear and confusion in his sweet little eyes and my heart broke. The fear, desperation and helplessness I felt in my soul was unlike anything I had ever felt before. More than anything in the world, I just wanted to hold him and protect him from whatever was hurting him. But I couldn’t. No matter how hard I squeezed, the episodes kept coming.

After what felt like an eternity, the doctor came in the examining room to see Tyler. Unlike the infamous car rattle that disappears as soon as you show up at the mechanic, Tyler had several episodes within the hour for the doctor to witness. The doctor thought he might be having seizures, so he ordered a CT Scan to test Tyler’s brain for trauma, aneurysm, bleeding on the brain and any indication of a brain tumor. I felt like my head was spinning. Seizures? Aneurysm? Brain tumor? In a matter of seconds, my precious son had gone from “acting a little weird every once in awhile” to “possibly having a brain tumor”.

Later that night, we received word that Tyler’s brain appeared to be “structurally intact” and that there didn’t appear to be any tumors. We were able to rule out some scary, life threatening things, but the reality was that we were no closer to understanding what was happening to our son. There was nothing more they could do in the emergency room, so as the seizures continued, we were sent home. I was worried that Tyler’s life would never be the same.

The following month was, without question, the worst month of my life. I rarely slept because I wanted to be there for him when he had a seizure. I didn’t want him to ever feel alone and scared. I still remember watching him sleep in his bed. He was so small and innocent. It didn’t seem fair. We saw specialist after specialist and Tyler endured countless tests. He gave blood no fewer than 10 times. He had several ultrasounds, two MRIs, two EEG tests, a spinal tap, you name it and the poor kid had it. He tried so hard to be brave, but he would inevitably break down and cry as we approached the hospital and it wasn’t hard to understand why. We were all scared.

Knowing that something was very wrong, but not being able to do anything about it was agonizing. The doctors were stumped. They tested for everything. The never ending cycle of testing and waiting for results was exhausting. I spent countless hours on the Internet researching everything the doctors were testing for. Without fail, what I found was devastating. Everything I read seemed to include – “requires brain surgery”, “life threatening”, “severely limited brain development”, or “often fatal”. There were so many times I just sat, completely overwhelmed, trying to wrap my head around what was happening. Always waiting. Staring at the phone and waiting. Needing it to ring, but terrified of what the call might bring. Test after test kept coming back negative, which was good news, but we still had no idea what was happening to Tyler.

As the weeks dragged on and we tried to return to a somewhat “normal routine”, I remember driving to work, and the weight of what my son was facing hit me. I broke down. I pulled over and just cried. I hated myself for every time I had been short with him, or didn’t have enough time to play with him because “daddy’s busy with work” or “daddy’s tired”. I felt like a horrible dad for missing his birthday party because of a “previous work commitment”.

After another MRI confirmed that Tyler would not require any brain surgery, we scheduled a 72 hour ambulatory EEG to try to capture his brain activity during a seizure.

More waiting. For me, the worst part of the waiting was the terrifying what-if scenarios that constantly raced through my mind. Finally, the call came.

Tyler was suffering from partial complex neurological seizures. He had epilepsy. The cause of the seizures was unknown, but it was confirmed that there was nothing structurally wrong with his brain. A lot is still unknown about the brain, but his neurologist was confident that we would be able to get Tyler on a medication program that would allow him to be seizure-free. We finally knew what we were up against.

Thankfully, Tyler has been seizure-free for 17 months now. He is a wonderful, happy, healthy kid who takes anti-seizure medication sprinkled in his yogurt “to keep his brain healthy”. He is doing well in school

and he loves playing sports. His epilepsy has not limited him.

As a family, we have been incredibly blessed throughout this trial. When I think back upon that month of my life – of what could have been had any of the other tests come back positive – I am overcome with sheer gratitude.

But Tyler’s epilepsy is always on my mind. Even when I’m not consciously thinking about it, I still feel it there. Whenever Andrea calls and is upset, my mind immediately races to his epilepsy and I brace for the bad news that he has had a seizure. Whenever he acts funny or has trouble concentrating, I worry that it is his epilepsy. His medication is working incredibly well, but I am still scared of what can happen if things get worse. Like any parent, I just want my kids to have the opportunity to have a healthy, fulfilling, happy life. I don’t want life to be any harder for them than it has to be.

I am somewhat embarrassed to even mention my experience in the same context as what Tom went through in Vietnam, but he is right. We all have challenges that shape our lives. Many have faced far worse than me, but spending a month of my life waiting to find out if I was going to lose my son or not was a matter of life and death for me. It changed my life. More than anything, it helped me realize what is truly important in my life. Occasionally, I still feel myself getting worked up or stressed out about something trivial, but it normally doesn’t last very long. I just think about Tyler, or Tom, or the fact that everyday, millions of people are facing unfathomable hardships and I thank God for my blessings.

It has been said that “truth is stranger than fiction”. As someone with a fairly active imagination, I sometimes find that hard to believe. At least until recently. The other night, I experienced an event that even the best Hollywood writers would be hard pressed to dream up. It was 100% real and it was pure comedy. Trust me, I would love to take some credit for coming up with it, but I can’t. I was just there taking notes.

I think it would be appropriate to kick things off with a little quiz.

If you were planning a Christmas pageant for a group of 40+ kindergartners and the roughly 1,765 parents, friends, siblings, aunts, uncles, grandmothers and grandfathers who would be in attendance, where would you choose to hold the event?

A) The school gymnasium
B) A large classroom
C) A local community center
D) Wedged between rows of books at a local bookstore

This might feel like a trick question, but let me assure you, it is not. Believe it or not, Tyler’s school opted for D. I am sure that, in theory, this made perfect sense to the school’s decision makers. Let the kids sing a few songs, provide the parents with a cute holiday show and receive a percentage of book sales during the event for fundraising. Everybody wins. In theory.

Having recently documented the pitfalls of trying to capture the perfect picture during Christmas pageants (see Leave the Camera Home), I showed up fully prepared to live NOW and focus all of my attention on just enjoying the show.

Upon arrival, it quickly became apparent that books, excited children and hundreds of festive, holiday sweaters packed into a single location will wreak havoc on even the best air conditioning system. I started sweating almost immediately. We were 15 minutes early and already the place was packed. The mob of humanity immediately to my right seemed to suggest that the show would be held near the café, but as I began to navigate my way through the crowd, I found out that my assumption was incorrect.

Logically, someone had decided that the performance would best be held wedged between two rows of books. Not exactly what I would have chosen given the fact that the store actually had a small stage, but I am no pageant coordinator. Apparently, nothing says Happy Holidays quite like the “Diet & Exercise” and “Vegetarian Cooking” book sections.

Once all of the children had been carefully positioned and the sea of friends and family had valiantly fought their way into viewing position, the show was ready to start. I was not fast enough to get an unobstructed view, but I was able to press myself up against a display of cookbooks and see Tyler’s sweet little head. The book jammed into my ribcage was moderately uncomfortable, but I could see my boy, so I was ready to enjoy some singing.

Showtime. Lights, camera, ……, no power. No joke, the CD player that was to provide all background music for the show did not have any power. My confidence in the pageant planning committee, already shaken by the odd choice of venue, was virtually shattered. Flustered but undeterred, the teachers simply announced that tonight’s performance would be acapella. You’ve got to give them credit. I probably would have just run.

Finally, mercifully, the kids started singing their little hearts out. It was adorable – for the 23 seconds that I could see and hear anything. Almost immediately after the singing started, virtually every adult in attendance simultaneously reached the conclusion that their view was unacceptable and a scene from The Lord of The Flies broke out.

Now, I love my kids more than anything in the world, but I am not ready to start climbing over people or scaling furniture and store displays in public to take a picture of them. Call me crazy. Interestingly enough, I did witness the fact that even high heels can double as climbing shoes for a properly motivated climber. Who knew?

At least Andrea, who had disregarded my advice and brought her camera, was able to get one good picture of Tyler.

Since I have made a concerted effort to live NOW, I sometimes feel as though the world is purposely trying to test me. I mean seriously, who in their right mind would decide to hold a kindergarten Christmas pageant in a crowded bookstore? Have these people not seen what great lengths we will go to in order to watch our precious angels? As I tried valiantly to stay in the moment and focus all of my attention on watching the top of my son’s head, I couldn’t help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of my surroundings. And sometimes that is all you can do. Just laugh.

When I was younger, I didn’t value my time very much. There always seemed to be plenty of it, so I took it for granted. Over the years, it has become clear to me that if I don’t value my time, no one else will. A few years ago while vacationing in Mexico, I learned that lesson the hard way.

Andrea and I were enjoying a relaxing week in Cabo San Lucas.

Everything was going well, until I saw the sign – “Free Parasailing!” As adventurous people who appreciate the value of a dollar, we were tempted by the allure of anything free, especially parasailing. Probably too good to be true, but we decided to check it out anyway. As we warily approached the sign’s owner, two thoughts crept into my head – 1) nothing in life is free and 2) you get what you pay for. Undeterred by common sense, we made our way to the front of the line.

Sure enough, there was a catch. To get our free parasailing tickets, we would have to attend a brief presentation on the virtues of owning a timeshare in Mexico. Easy enough. We could sit through a short presentation on almost anything for free tickets. Despite having heard countless timeshare presentation horror stories, I desperately wanted to parasail for free. I figured all we had to lose was just our time.

As the presentation entered its fourth hour, I was fully convinced that “brief” meant something entirely different in Spanish than it did in English, and that we were most likely going to die before it came to an end. Early on, in the interest of easing my guilt, I explained that we were really only there for the free parasailing tickets and that we didn’t want to waste any of their time. Our pleas fell on deaf ears. Apparently our agent was told to close the deal or risk bodily harm, because he would not take no for an answer. We toured the entire facility twice, endlessly calculated the “low, low” costs of timeshare ownership and were passed around to three different sales agents, each with an equally indomitable sales approach. Finally, sensing defeat, our lead agent told us to wait for “the manager”.

We thought about running, but we had already invested the entire afternoon into the venture and were stubbornly determined to get our free tickets. When “the manager” showed up looking quite possibly like the most intimidating mobster I had ever seen, I realized that my choices were limited to either buying a new Cabo timeshare or never being heard from again. Thankfully, he had no desire to kill us and eventually sent us on our way with our precious tickets.

Tired and hungry, but finally free, we tried to enjoy our parasailing. Unfortunately, we quickly learned that parasailing in Mexico is both cheap and fast.

We had given up over four hours of our lives for what ended up being a four and a half minute parasailing ride worth only about $30. Four hours of vacation time no less!

Now, a little older and a little wiser, I realize that my time is the most valuable resource I have. I try to cherish every moment and not haphazardly waste my time on gimmicks that promise untold riches for only “a few minutes” of my time. Take it from me, there’s always a catch. There already aren’t enough hours in the day for me to do everything that I want to. Why waste any of them?