I recently saw a compilation video. This video showed dads seeing their daughters with their boyfriends for the first time.
This made me think about when this will happen to me one day.
I started to think about Ivy, Sage, and Wren one day growing up. I started to think about my Ivy, my partner, my girl who cuddles with me at every chance and always wants to play. I thought about her growing up.
I started to feel an intense pain in my chest. Like serious, gotta stop thinking this kind of pain.
I don’t know if other parents get this.
You know those “memories” videos that iPhones create? IPhone takes all your photos for a year or something and puts them together with emotional music in the background. I can watch them in very limited spurts. I will definitely start bawling my eyes out. Tears are the best case scenario. Worst case, the aforementioned heart pain extends to my whole body and it feels like my body will explode.
This will sound like an exageration. It is not. It is a real feeling.
You’ll notice above when I talked about Ivy cuddling with me and always wanting to play, I stopped there. I could have listed a million other examples of the loving affection between us. I could have used more examples with Sage and Wren.
But as I type these thoughts and consider them getting older, my chest starts to hurt, and my eyes fill, and I have to stop. There’s a reason I’m not getting more detailed.
My love for them is so all encompassing, so palpable, so excruciating, that I feel physical, overwhelming pain when I think about it one day changing. I know it has to change, one day. Until that day…
Having three kids now five and under (because Ivy is five, yeah, let’s not talk about it), is extremely, extremely hard. It’s taxing. It feels like almost every day is a marathon that never ends. Sometimes I’ll find myself thinking I just want it to be over. I want them to be able to pour their own cereal and put on their own pants and wipe their own bum.
Then Ivy started putting on her own pants and pouring her own cereal. Sage started wiping her own bum.
And as I type this, and the screen becomes blurry, I remember to embrace the bum wipings and all the mundane. Because one day might be the last day Ivy says, “Daddy, do you want to play with me?”
I hope that day never comes. But I guess it probably will.
Okay. I need to stop now.
Am I the only one? What is this love? A father for his daughters.
Moments where you feel like a good parent doing good things sometimes don’t come often enough. And then one comes that is so impactful it brings you to tears.
Ivy claimed to be sick this morning. I thought she was making it up until I saw her throw up with my own eyes.
So she stayed home from school. Without any guidance or prompt, she went upstairs on her own and laid down in her bed. This is very un-Ivy like. She was definitely sick.
I got a show setup on a laptop for her so she could lay in bed and relax. I brought it to her, and she didn’t want it, she just wanted to rest. Ivy was definitely sick.
An hour later she came to my room and said she did want a show. We walked back to her room, and I started to get it setup. She said she needed to throw up and inexplicably walked away from her throw up bucket and passed her bathroom down the hall to my bathroom.
Luckily, she made it in time.
She knelt in front of the toilet. She looked so big, her little four-year-old body, already knowing how to properly throw up in a toilet. Any parent can relate to and feel the pain of watching their child throw up.
I held her hair and rubbed her back.
Ivy stood up.
She said, through little sobs and stutters as she caught her breath, “Daddy, I ask Jesus in my bed to help me. Will you pray for me at my bed? I asked Jesus to help me stop throwing up.”
Those words don’t fully capture it. I cannot properly put in words the sweetness, the tenderness, the humility, the vulnerability, the faith, the innocence of what was coming out of Ivy’s mouth. What I put above was roughly what she said. But it was so much more. It was soft, it was gentle, it was pleading.
This pleading was not with adultlike “this needs to get done” energy, but with patient understanding. This request came with complete innocence. Coming from your four-year-old who is normally all chaotic, joyful energy, these calm, sweet moments can be so jarring.
I explained to Ivy that Jesus might help her stop throwing up, but I promised her that even if she didn’t stop throwing up, He would be with her and help her. I told Ivy, “You know when Jesus died for you?” She nodded, as this is something we talk about often. “When He died for you, He felt what you just felt, that hurt and pain and sickness of throwing up, He felt it. So even if you throw up more, He is with you.”
Ivy said, “Even when I get big owies, He feels it.”
I took Ivy back to her room. I put a show on for her to watch. She lay in bed.
How do parents parent without faith?
This parenting thing is hard enough. How could I explain to Ivy that she’s throwing up and in pain and I don’t know why and there’s nothing I can do about it?
In the last couple weeks, my knee has been healed, my daughter with potential hip dysplasia has been blessed (what happens is yet to be seen), and my Ivy has known that even though she’s sick, Jesus is with her and helping her and there’s a reason for it.
How do you raise kids without this?
I don’t know.
The last thing Ivy said during our conversation at the toilet, “Jesus is God, that is why I ask Him for help.”
Jesus is our God. Heavenly Father is our Father. They watch over us. As I sit here with tears in my eyes, my sweet daughter laying in bed suffering with a little tummy ache, writing this out, I’m reminded that Jesus is God. And I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t know that. It would be so hopeless otherwise.
He died for us, and He knows our pain.
I wish we could all have the faith of a 4-year-old.
It’s interesting considering what you can glean about a soul in the signs they give before their arrival.
On Monday 1/20/25, someone asked me if I wanted to play basketball that night, I said I probably shouldn’t because Beth wouldn’t appreciate that. He asked when the baby was coming. I said, “Any day now. She’s being stubborn.”
Maybe because Ivy and Sage both came a week early, maybe because Beth was extremely done with this pregnancy, maybe a combination of factors, but for 14 days leading up to Monday 1/20 we were thinking it would be any day.
That led to a lot of anticipation. WHY AREN’T WE GOING TO THE HOSPITAL?
Friday 1/17 Beth and I spent the night on the couch as she was having irregular contractions most of the night. We were ready at any moment to pack up and leave.
Flash forward to 1/20 and I was at basketball practice when Beth called. She thought it was really happening this time. I told the team and was off, not super optimistic that it was actually happening. Once I arrived at the house, I knew it was happening.
We quickly gathered our bags and were out the door. Ivy and Sage waved with Grandma and Aunt Jane from the front door. I’ll probably always remember that image. My two girls, my world, not fully realizing how their worlds were about to change – in challenging but amazing ways.
I’m writing this from the hospital and I’m so excited for them to meet their new sister.
What Wren lacked in initiative pushing us to the hospital she made up for once we arrived. We got to the hospital around 5:00pm and she was born at 6:05pm.
Ivy and Sage’s births were fast and felt whirlwind-like. This had a whirlwind feel given the pace, but it really didn’t feel frantic at all. It felt very under control. Of course, who am I to say? Beth would probably say it was a complete whirlwind of chaos.
When Beth and I were planning to get married our Bishop at the time had a sit down with us. I remember him commenting on how Beth came from a family of five children and I came from a family of six. He made a statement that I’ve remembered ever since. It was something like, “You two will have no problem having children.”
I’m not sure how he meant it at the time, but with how Ivy, Sage, and now Wren have come, I can’t help but feel like it was a Bishop’s blessing. That’s how I’ve taken it ever since.
Wren’s coming could not have gone any more smoothly.
It felt like a blessed and sanctified process.
It felt guided and protected.
Again, Beth might not agree, I’m ultimately just a bystander to the process. I think she would agree though. Maybe we should ask her.
This isn’t to say that difficult pregnancies or deliveries are any less special. On the contrary, challenges sometimes make the blessings more powerful. We all have our own experiences with this miracle. And that’s what each and every birth is: A miracle.
I am grateful for a strong and capable wife that can do this unimaginable thing. We are blessed that this process has gone well for us three times. I do not take this for granted.
So Wren arrived with a lot more hair at 6:05pm.
I’ve described this process before. See Ivy and Sage’s welcome to life posts. I’ll try to put it into words for a third time.
My heart didn’t split, it expanded. As I looked at Wren, Ivy and Sage flashed before my eyes. I thought about how I loved each of them so powerfully. I can’t remember if I was brought to tears immediately with the other two. Maybe I should go back and read their posts. I wanted to write this before reading Ivy or Sage’s so this could be completely original.
But as I looked at Wren I had to hold back tears. Not sure why the third hit me so hard. Maybe it was the pace of things. Maybe three is a special number, and when your heart expands that third time, something special happens.
I don’t know.
All I know is I love her so much.
It’s crazy, you know. I can’t believe I’m here, on earth. I can’t believe I’ve been given the power and ability to create life. The greatest gift of all existence, the power to create life, and it’s been entrusted to me. I can’t believe I have three daughters. I can’t believe I have a wife that is so special and such a great mother. I can’t believe I’ll get to be with them forever, for the rest of this life, and beyond. I can’t believe Wren was born into a covenant, ensuring that as long as I do my part she will be mine forever. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I often think about what I did to deserve all this. And I can’t for the life of me figure it out.
But I’m anxious to say thank you one day.
So, welcome to this life Wren. It’s hard but rewarding. It’s scary, but if you know why you’re here, there is peace. It is overwhelming, but you’ve been given a family to help with that.
I love you baby girl and look so forward to seeing how your personality shapes and develops to add to our family. Thank you for coming to join us. We love you so.
My grandpa Stan recently turned 90 years old. For his birthday, all his children and grandchildren wrote him a letter. This is the letter I wrote to my grandpa.
Grandpa,
One of my earliest memories was my first and only trip to Grandaddy Lake. It was horrible. Keep in mind, I was maybe 4. It rained the whole time. It was so miserable. But I still remember it.
I remember hiking back after the long week there. It was raining. I’m not sure it ever stopped raining. I was walking through mud, and I was crying. Everyone else was hiking with big backpacks for the trip. I had my little toy backpack on, and I was crying about it, about the hike, about the rain, about the mud, about my miserable existence.
You got frustrated with me. It was the only time I recall seeing you frustrated/angry/mad. I cried more.
My dad took my little backpack. I still have a memory of my dad shirtless, hiking in the rain. He was hiking now with his huge backpack on his back and my little backpack on his shoulder.
I looked around at all my aunts, uncles, you, and my dad and realized no one else was complaining. Everyone was cold, wet, and frustrated, but no one was complaining.
This core memory has stuck with me. I like to think it impacted me and in some minor, or possibly major ways, has shaped me.
The Las Vegas Quackenbush clan (my family) has never been to Granddaddy Lake. We have our modern-day equivalent. We now go to the theme park Six Flags Magic Mountain multiple times a year. It is a requirement that any future in-law go through the gauntlet of a 12-hour day at Magic Mountain before they can even think about being accepted into the family.
When Beth came to Six Flags with us for the first time, we were all so happy because there was a high heat warning. The lines were great! Meanwhile, we almost died. My roommate came with us to Six Flags once. He’s sworn to never return.
I now have two daughters that I joke, tongue-in-cheek, about needing to remove as much Cannon from (Beth’s maiden name) and insert as much Quackenbush into as possible.
This is the Grandaddy Lake mindset. More importantly, this is what it is to be a Quackenbush. I take pride in my name.
I take pride in you.
I take pride in our pioneer roots.
I take pride in the foundation of faith I have been afforded.
I take pride in what you and Grandma built, for me.
I take pride in what you and Grandma built, for my family, for my daughters.
I want to thank you for choosing an eternal companion of from among the devoted young women of The Kingdom. That is a line from my patriarchal blessing. I was able to choose an eternal companion who is an amazing mother, wife, and person because of you. I am able to raise my daughters with a confidence in things eternal because of you and Grandma. I am able to see the bigger picture, endure, have faith, progress, learn, grow, and get better, all with an understanding of who I am and where I come from, because of you and Grandma.
I don’t know what I did to earn the position in the family I’ve been given, but I thank you.
I look forward to one day having a life review. I hope to see some or all of your life review and Grandma’s life review. I look forward to one day seeing all the sacrifices endured and trials met head on by Grandma and yourself so that I could have the mortal experience I have been afforded. You and Grandma are a foundation. You created a foundation. In this life I’ll never fully understand all you went through and struggled with so I could have what I have. One day, I hope to understand. On that day, I will stand, and I will kneel, and I will thank my progenitors, you, for what you did for me. We all will.
It’s time for one of my favorite posts to write – Ivy thoughts!
This is a good one.
One of the funnest things about being a parent is watching your child start to mimic you. It’s in those moments that I get a snapshot into how closely she is watching me. The other day Beth texted me and said, “I can tell when there’s a habit you do because Ivy does it. Like tapping your toothbrush on the edge of the sink. I said, ‘Does Daddy do that?’ And she said, ‘Yeah Daddy like tap tap tap.’”
Other examples are the words she copies. The other day she said to her grandpa, “Papa, come hang out.” Another time they were playing a game and she said, “You give it a try.” My favorite example showing Ivy paying attention and learning, she was standing at the kitchen counter while her grandpa cut vegetables. He set the knife down and she, unprompted, said, “Ivy no touch knives.” Ivy helps me put the dishes away. I’ll hand her cups, plastic bowls, plastic plates, forks, spoons and she’ll put them in the dishwasher. Early on I would start to hand her a knife and then pause and say, “Does Ivy touch knives.” Of course, in the beginning, she would say, “Yes,” and I would say, “No, no, Ivy doesn’t touch knives,” and she’d quickly say, “No, no, Ivy no touch knives.” So we’d continue and if I started to hand her a knife to test her she would quickly say, “No, no, Ivy no touch knives.” Glad to see the things I’m teaching her are travelling.
I had Ivy for an hour while I worked one day. She sat on the couch and watched Curious George by herself for 30 minutes. 30 minutes in she wanted to work with me. I tell her she can sit on my lap as long as she doesn’t touch anything. She proceeds to touch everything and say, “Can I touch this.” This I accept, having played this game before, as long as she doesn’t touch my keyboard. Then she starts throwing things. I gently set her aside and tell her it’s back to Curious George. This whole time she hasn’t said a word about the bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs on the right side of my desk. I’m amazed until… 2 minutes later she comes back. She walks up to my right arm which is on my chair’s arm rest. She gives my arm a huge hug and says, “Daddy, I’m so proud of you.” She gives it a good squeeze. I say, “Aw Ivy, thank you, I love you,” and give her a kiss. She promptly reaches over for the bag of chocolates and starts to walk away. I grab them just before she is out of reach. I tell her she can have one. I unwrap it and give it to her. As she walks out she says, “Thank you Daddy, I love you.” Is this what being wrapped around a finger feels like?
Ivy and I were cuddling in bed after a nap and totally out of nowhere Ivy looks up at me and says, “You have sharks on your water bottle, Dad?” I looked over at my water bottle and said, “No, my water bottle is just green.” Ivy said, “It OK Dada, one day when you’re bigger you’ll get sharks on your water bottle TOO.”
The other day Beth asked Ivy if she tooted and she said, very seriously, “No. There’s just a bobcat in my bum.” The same day, after I left for work, Ivy asked Beth, “Where Daddy going?” Beth responded that I went to work and Ivy said, “Again?!?!” You and me both sweet girl. She had a lot of personality that day.
This was one of those equally heartbreaking and also wonderful parenting moments. I took Ivy with me to an open gym for basketball a couple months back. I expected it to go well. It went as poorly as it could have. I had to leave early and it was the last time I took Ivy to open gym. In my frustration, after Ivy was upset and throwing a fit and crying, I told her I’d hoped I could take her with me to basketball more this season but that I wasn’t going to make that mistake again. Like I said, I hadn’t taken her back with me since. Recently, I was at basketball. Ivy saw me leave with my bag and ball. “Where you goin Daddy?” “I have to go to basketball sweetie, I’ll see you when I get back.” She just looked at me with the most beautiful eyes and content face. But it wasn’t the normal – ‘see ya later’ face. While I was at practice Beth texted me, “Ivy’s been packing a bag and saying ‘I’m packing because I have to go to basketball soon. I know you will miss me when I’m at basketball. I come back though.’” I realized I need to give her another shot.
Apparently when I was gone for work an entire day Ivy kept saying, “Say what’s wrong Hero Boy.” So Beth replies and asks what’s wrong with Hero Boy. “I lost my daddy.” Heart. Broken.
We’ve had a few days of complete toddler turmoil. I love Ivy. She’s been a monster. She’s in the stage where if you ask her not to do something it’s instantly the next thing she does. Not kidding. We’ve been letting her play Battleship. You know, like the old school board game. She sits and puts the ships and pegs in and plays Battleship with herself. On occasion, the little pegs drop and I had to emphasize to her that it was important those didn’t drop because we didn’t want to lose pieces and Sage could choke on them. Ivy got out of her chair, walked across the room to where Sage was, and started to hand her one of the little pegs. It wasn’t like the temptation was even there. Sage wasn’t right next to her. She had to get out of her seat (a lot of work) and walk across the room to find Sage and willfully disobey what I just said. It was like she was possessed by some irrepressible urge to do exactly what I just told her not to do. These are the parenting moments that are teaching us patience, I guess.
On that note of Ivy being difficult and us trying to be patient – I was leaving for basketball the other day and it had been a particularly stressful day for Beth. I went to Ivy before I left and quietly talked to her. I asked her to be my best girl. To help her mom, to take care of her sister, and to be my best, sweetest girl. “Can you do that for me?” “Yes, Daddy.” Beth texted me while I was at basketball: “We finally had a quiet moment to sit down after a walk and crafts. I’m trying so hard and yet she’s being so difficult! Ivy has a cold drink and Sage is eating her dinner. Ivy looks up at me and says in a sweet little voice, ‘Mom, I am doing my best.’ I have no idea where she heard that or if she even knows what that means but it was so sweet and probably true so I told her, ‘I know, my sweet Ivy’ and felt a little calmer. The student becomes the teacher yet again.” Ivy knows what that means. And she’s amazing. And she’s teaching us so much, while we try to teach her just enough to survive and not choke her sister.
No Coincidences 