You Are My Sunshine

I was woefully unprepared for law school. In fact, I hadn’t really planned on attending law school at all, but one night several during my senior year of college Clorinda suggested that maybe I ought to consider having a back-up plan to my then-current plan (which was something along the lines of: “I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.”) As luck would have it, Law and Order was playing on the TV, and being inspired by the TV gods, I said, “I’ll go to law school.”

Clorinda pointed out that I needed to take the LSAT (what’s the LSAT?) and so I should sign up, like right that moment. I did.

I took the test in early December at BYU. When I walked in, there were lots of smart looking folk that were putting off crazy levels of anxiety. The guy next to me had six pencils lined up, plus a sharpener and two (2!) little alarm clocks. He asked if it was my first time testing (of course—you mean people take it more than once? Why?!). He explained that he had taken it earlier that year, but had self-selected to void the test (an option available if you think you’ve bombed it and don’t want the results). Having been a poor married college student, I’m not sure if I was more baffled that he would take a test and not get the score, or PAY for a test and then take the test and not get the score.

As luck would have it, I DIDN’T feel compelled to void my test, made it through with my one pencil, and scored well enough to get admitted to law school at BYU.

My first year was an interesting one. First year law students generally all take the same courses—Civil procedure (it only took me 3 months to realize that Civil Procedure referred to the procedures for civil practice. Yeah, I was quick), Property, Contracts, Torts, Criminal Law, Constitutional Law, and a class that BYU called Advocacy. Other schools call it different things, but it was essentially legal writing and research. The second semester at BYU we had to choose one other class out of four. My choice was a jurisprudence course that was a legal theory/philosophy lecture.

Professor Cole Durham may be the most ivory-tower of any professor I have ever had. The guy’s discussions were so far over my head that I spent my time in class just hoping that he would say something, anything, that would make enough sense for me to write in my notes. It was much more a lecture than a participation class. Well, maybe that was just for me. I had nothing to offer. (I felt like I did in my junior year (HS) English class when we read Winter Dreams by F Scott Fitzgerald. My teacher explained how character names often have double meanings. He asked about why Fitzgerald named the main protagonist “Dexter Green.” My offering: because he’s playing golf and you have greens in golf. Let’s just say that wasn’t my strongest grade.)

As luck would have it, Professor Durham’s entire grade rested on one paper, due at the end of the semester. He encouraged us to work on the paper throughout the semester, but I had a long list of substantive classes that demanded my attention. So the paper got kicked down the road.

As the semester was coming to close, Professor Durham informed us that he would be out of the country for several weeks at the end of the semester. In an act of absolute benevolence, he gave us until the Monday after write-on to turn in our papers. Write-on took four days after the end of finals, so the end of my semester looked like this: 2 weeks of finals, then four days of write-on, leaving me Friday through Monday to finish the paper. (I suppose I should define write-on. Law Review is the premier legal journal at the law school, and so it’s the happening place to be. Employers dig that stuff, apparently. Write-on is essentially a writing contest to be selected for law review or one of the other journals.)

I made it through finals, plowed through write-on (and ultimately got selected to be on law review, btw), and finally decided to start work on a twenty-page paper due just three days later. I worked, nay, slaved for two solid days devising a topic, researching it, gathering information, and writing an initial draft of the paper. Or at least the first 16 pages of a paper. By the time Saturday evening came, I was exhausted and determined that I could come in on Monday, write the last four pages, proof-read and edit it, and hand it in. I locked up my laptop and research and everything in my desk at the school and headed home, hoping for a true day of rest after 3 solid weeks of law school insanity.

(I need to share some back-story. Nine months prior to this weekend, I had graduated with a degree in Sociology (motto: Old Navy, Here We Come!) and was gearing up to start law school. At the risk of sharing MTMI, we celebrated graduation. And that’s all I have to say about that right now.)

Sunday provided a much needed rest. Clorinda’s extended family had a big dinner up in Salt Lake, and we went and enjoyed visiting with lots of aunts, uncles, cousins, etc. We got back to Provo around 9:30 or 10:00 and started getting ready for bed. With reference to the back-story above, Clorinda announced that “this baby is coming tonight!”

“Wait, what? You’re PREGNANT?!” I guess I hadn’t paid her much attention during law school and hadn’t noticed the weight gain. Husband of the year.

OK, strike that paragraph. My real response was “Oh no she is NOT. I have a PAPER DUE TOMORROW!”

Guess who won that argument (hint: it WAS NOT ME).

I decided I’d better finish the paper, but I had a really big problem. This was long before Dropbox, long before thumb drives, and (as noted above), ALL of my work was locked in a desk in the law school library. And it was 10:00 at night. And my VERY pregnant wife was in labor.

I started typing. I don’t have a clue what I wrote, I just wrote. And wrote. And fabricated whatever literary tripe I could to get the last four pages done. I emailed the paper to myself and then went to bed.

At seven AM the next day I was at the law school. Thankfully, the labor was not progressing rapidly (don’t tell Clorinda I was glad that her labor was dragging out. That’s not a sensitive thought. Husband of the year!) The law school was … wait for it … locked. Shut. Tight. Like, nobody home. School is OUT and we are NOT COMING TO WORK.

Except for the janitors! Hooray for the janitors! One heard me banging on the door and came to tell me that the law school was on Summer hours and wouldn’t be open for at least two more hours.

Yeah, that’s not going to work. You see, MY WIFE IS IN LABOR and I HAVE A PAPER THAT IS DUE TODAY so I AM COMING IN, OK?

This janitor was no dummy. He probably saw the absolute terror in my eyes—facing my wife because I missed the delivery of my child OR facing my wife because I’d failed out of law school. Cue Darth Vader: NOOOOOOOOOO!! He let me in! What a guy! I raced to me desk, pulled up my email, cut and pasted the tripe to the end of the sixteen pages, checked my formatting, printed the paper, ran it to the professor’s office and then headed home to take Clorinda to the hospital.

That was sixteen years ago today. That day, Clorinda gave me my third child and second little girl. When the nurses handed her to me, I was overcome with an instant love for that little, perfect bundle of sunshine. I held her and sang “You Are My Sunshine” to her. She was a little doll, and I was smitten.

Marien and Clayton took to her, too. According to the birth announcement, Marien said that “Our baby is so cute” and Clayton added “She’s cute.” So three of the four of us thought she was cute. Clorinda was still too exhausted from the delivery to weigh in, but she didn’t use any of my dad’s favorite lines (i.e., “what a treasure, let’s bury it”), so we assumed that Clorinda liked her too.

Just a couple months ago that little girl played the lead in a production of Thoroughly Modern Millie. Although she’d been sick—like hacking and wheezing and aching sick—for a week before the performances, she pushed forward and absolutely killed the performance. She has a flair for the dramatic and can sing like a bird. (We’re not entirely sure where the singing came from. I can’t sing to save my life, and although Clorinda can hold her own, she’s not winning a spot on the Voice anytime soon. Maybe the outtakes from American Idol, but not the Voice. Kathryn, on the other hand, could win the Voice. The judges will just have to come sit in my family room while she showers--her music fills the whole house!)

I can’t believe that my baby is sixteen. Last night she had a little panic attack. She wasn’t ready to be 16 (which is moderately ironic, since she’s been going on 18 for a good 7 years). We talked it through, and today she’s seized it. I just love her.

Happy Birthday little Kathryn. You are still my sunshine.