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Wyoming born. Arizona raised. Sports Reporter. Trying to live a life of gratitude. Not a fan of pineapples.

8/24/2011: “…joyously serving as a two-foot tall matador for Range Rovers.”

Jett-

On a very basic level, you are sort of like a plant, or a pet cat. I know, you’re also the greatest blessing earth has ever seen, and a living ray of sunshine mixed with hints of double rainbows- but looking past those biased parental delusions, I find that my number one priority regarding Jett Emerson Amsden is the same as Lilies that I might keep in my cubicle, and that priority is DON’T LET IT DIE. There is, however, a glaring difference between between you and an office plant- my office plant does not want to die. It angles it’s leaves to capture light, deepens it’s roots to sooth it’s thirst, offers flowers to continue it’s lineage, all for the sake of making it one more day on this earth. You don’t share this priority. You play chicken with the grim reaper daily. The only reason he hasn’t taken you is because he probably sees how exhausted I look, and isn’t ready to take on the responsibility himself. I turn my back for one instant and you’re inserting something into an electrical socket, pulling on the pitbull’s ears, playing a rousing game of “drown my brother,” or trying to pour yourself a shot of window cleaner.

Today, at the park, you ran away. You made all the way to the parking lot before I stopped you from joyously serving as a two-foot tall matador for Range Rovers. Apparently frustrated by my suicide intervention, you angrily wiggled away and dove face-first into the curb. Blood everywhere. I froze. You seemed oddly impressed at your ability to produce your own fingerpaint- in fact, you only started crying when I pulled you away from your “sidewalk art.”

It was then that I realized how diametrically opposed our priorities are. My charge is to keep you safe and secure, and if you want to make a contest of it, you’re on. I hope you don’t mind me doing a vindictive victory dance every time you still possess a pulse as I tuck you into bed. I’m not above rubbing it in, though it may sound odd for your brother to hear me saying “BOOYA! Still alive, and there’s nothing you can do about it!”

Just do me a favor and try not to give me a fatal heart attack while I’m fighting to keep you around.

Love,

Dad

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