Thanks, Dad.

Now that Easter is over, I feel like this is bloggable. Something about the Sabbath and Easter made this feel every shade of wrong. The Monday after Easter, I feel like it really only covers half of that spectrum. And that, friends, is grounds for blogging.

I call this collection "Freaky Easter Bunny: Childhood trauma."





(Credit goes to Huffington Post and The Daily Caller, and my Dad for filling my inbox with these photos Sunday morning.)

I don't have children but I like to make mental notes sometimes about what I will and won't do when I have them. Taking advantage of photo ops with demonic bunnies is my most recent addition to that list. It's right up there with saving them from the horrors of velveeta.

View from our car today + I heart Dads.

We drove on this today to see off my darling darling McOmber cousin of love on his mission to Denver, Colorado. At McOmber gatherings, we giggle, we hug, we love each other, and we all vocalize how wish we all lived on the same block. I always come away from time like that feeling really lucky to have extended family that makes me feel like we're welding our own link in a family chain that has been made up of people I really love and respect.

Which brings me to something else. We have both been blessed with Dads who have sacrificed for us to give us good lives. They are hard working, kind, loving, smart, witty, righteous, and both have a particularly strong knack for whipping up delicious dishes in the kitchen. So thank you, Dads. You are the bizzle and we love you.

Happy Birthday Papa Bear

March is replete with special days, but today is one of my favorites.

Today, my Dad is another year older, and 15 years wiser.

(Yes, his wisdom ages 15x the speed of his life. In wisdom years, he is 885 years old today. Sometimes I am suspicious that he is really an immortal Adelard of Bath. This has yet to be proven, and is in the works.)

Growing up, I thought everyone's Dad was like mine. It wasn't until I passed the formative years that I realized that not everyone's Dad is a self-taught Stevie-Ray-Vaughn-esque blues player, brewer of their very own apple cider vinegar and barbeque sauce, pontificator of Isaiah and Revelations like it's child's play, puller of gospel principles out of the "Godfather" movies, nor Scotts-Irish player of the bagpipes that could make a leprechaun do the Macarena.

He's also one of the most selfless men I know, who in his day has put up with a houseful of sea ponies, barbies, power rangers, *NSYNC (cue the hanging of my head in shame), and incessant Disney movies without batting an eye. He showed up to countless Cross Country meets, plays, and choir performances, sometimes driving to the most obscure corners of California to be there. He's counseled me on everything from making friends to dealing with life's disappointments, and his advice has always proven to be right.

One of the fondest memories I have of him goes back to my Senior year of High School. When I was already admitted to BYU, my parents got a little loose on the school attendance, and if I didn't feel like going sometimes, they'd kind of look the other way about it. My Dad even invented a pseudo-gang sign for it. I'd ask if I could skip class, and he'd sort of criss cross his fingers, then criss cross his arms, and then in the most rebellious voice he could muster, he'd say "DITCHIN'!"

He's the best Dad, and is revered by many, and I think we can claim to have the most delighted and adoring feelings of all.

Happy Birthday Daddio.



You are the King Bee and the favorite of the hive.