Loaves and Fishes Miracle

4 miles to empty.

Apparently Kirk’s car is really specific when warning of impending doom.  And apparently I’d missed its warnings for the previous 46 miles.

But there it clearly stated my situation.  4 miles to empty, with St. George an imposing 25 miles in my future.

A barrage of thoughts competed simultaneously for top billing.

“Has Kirk ever pushed his car this far?”

“Is this one of those ‘4 miles until you really ought to fill up, but idiots like you can probably squeak out an extra 30’ type of warning or an actual, literal, 4 miles to empty?”

“Which mile marker did I most recently pass so if I have to call for help I will at least know where I am?”

“How on earth did I just manage to drive from Las Vegas to St. George without even once thinking of the fact that cars need fuel?”  By the way, it had something to do with my intentional decision to stop thinking because my imagination kept running away to scary places I didn’t want it to go.  Apparently when I shut down the irrational thoughts, I shut down the rational ones, too.

I would have been stuck on that last thought were it not for the fact that the warning message now read “2 miles to empty.”

I considered my options.  My very limited options.  I called Kirk to find out if he had any past experience on which I could gauge the extent to which I should be worried.  And then I remembered the recent Facebook post of a friend.  “Ran out of gas for the first time ever.  #wantedtoseehowfaricouldgo #apparentlynotquitefarenough”  As I wondered how a person made it to be 30+ years of age without ever running out of gas (as I make it a yearly occurrence, have already written about 2 such instances - 2010 and 2013 - on this very blog, and should in all fairness disclose to having a 2014 story which I have not yet chronicled), I related to her husband’s comment best.  “It’s only a problem if you run out.  The last drops of gas have just as much potential energy as the first.”

I called Logan - through the bluetooth of course.  (Kirk hadn’t answered because I called him during church).  I explained my predicament, and he asked me what my plan was.  By this point, I was dealing with “0 miles to empty,” 20 miles to St. George, and a one-lane stretch of construction zone.

“My plan?” I responded.  “To call you and ask you to pray for a loaves and fishes miracle.”

He laughed until I insisted that really was my plan.  To pray that just like in the miracles of the Bible when the Lord fed a multitude with a few loaves and fishes, somehow the last few drops of fuel would get me to St. George.

I hung up and prayed.  During some of the miles, my faith wavered a bit and added a back-up prayer.  “If not a loaves and fishes miracle, then at least a Good Samaritan?”  And knowing there was bound to be one of the latter helped me put my faith fully into the loaves.  “0 miles to empty,” the car read mile after mile.

Again my faith wavered a few miles from St. George.  “Just watch… I came this far, just to run out of gas now,” I pessimistically surmised.  Then I reminded myself that even being closer to St. George was certainly helpful; fewer miles for my Samaritan to travel for a gas can.

And then I made it.

Ta-da!  Which is almost anticlimactic, because in reality, my trip was never in any danger.  Some (read at least ½ of my brain) might say there was enough gas all along to get me those last 25 miles.  After all, Kirk does not drive his car to empty and I hope never to test the theory again.  Others might proclaim faithfully that I experienced my own little miracle on I-15.  (Hmmm… potential movie title?)  Since I really won’t ever know, I’m going to say this.

My Heavenly Father loves me.  He cares about everything I care about, even the little things.  And even though some prayers don’t get answered in quite the ways I would like, He is mindful of me and watches over me.  Whenever I fall short on my own, He is there waiting with the loaves and fishes I need.  I drove 20 miles more than the car said I could.  That’s a miracle to me.

Sound Off: Football and Theater

I was delighted to come across a viral post translating football lingo into terms theater geeks like me might be able to better relate to.  A few of the comparisons were spot-on and others were a total stretch, but it helped me fondly recall a running gag I'd developed during Adam's football season this year.

It started with the week-long tryout held at the end of July - the callbacks - if you will.  At first, I assumed this would be more like an audition, but as the boys spent time meeting the demands of the various coaches, the callback status became apparent.  And, to be honest, I got a bit jealous of the coaches who got to hold a week-long callback!  If only I had that kind of time as a director.

We were in Puerto Rico, anxiously awaiting the day when the cast list would be posted.  Adam had been working with the A team coaches quite a lot during the callbacks, and we had high hopes for him.  And thanks to one particular defensive coach who saw some potential in him, he got cast.

And so the rehearsals started.  One solid month with five rehearsals per week.  I soon learned that while it was important to practice the individual skills they would need, much of the rehearsal time was spent learning choreography.  Each boy had a specific place to be with a specific job to do and a specific pattern to run.  They practiced these over and over again until each player knew his role in the dance.

Finally, the performances came.  Opening night was particularly fun, since it was the fundraising game.  Adam had lots of fans in the audience including grandparents and even Nick and Hunter.  Alex and Dylan always particularly enjoyed intermission when we would let them run around and take a break from watching their brother play.

Adam started out as a lead, but when his effort didn't quite match the expectations, his coaches demoted him to understudy.  He didn't get to be on the stage quite as frequently, but I still enjoyed watching as many of his performances as I was able to attend.

I wasn't there for closing night, but Adam told me that several of his teammates cried.  Their season was over (and they lost in the playoffs).  All that was left to look forward to was the cast party, when we would get to watch a slideshow, Adam would receive memorabilia to commemorate his participation in the group.  No one parties like theater people - but those football kids came pretty close!  And although Adam says he doesn't plan to audition this year, I am excited to see what kind of role Alex might get.

Considering Tears

I am not traditionally one who cries.  In fact, previous to this week, I think I have cried only a few types of tears, which I have conveniently listed in order from most frequent to least frequent.

Tears of frustration
Tears of exhaustion
Tears of remorse
Hormone induced tears
Tears from physical pain

Oh, how blissfully unaware I was of the incredible depth and range of this perfectly natural, physical human reaction.

In fact, oh, how blissfully unaware I was of so much.

And then, on January 14th, 2015, my world changed forever.  Mostly it changed in one really big way: my beautiful niece - known affectionately as Princess Ty in our home - died.  I would try to say it in a prettier, easier to handle way, but the harsh reality I had to break to my sons just can't be sugar coated, and it feels like I am hiding from it when I try to say it any other way.

There is so much about that night that I want desperately to forget.  I truly pray that the pain and fear will fade, although I expect it to be a terribly long process.  But there is also so much about that night and the ensuing week that I desperately want to remember.  I've been replaying those moments in my mind over and over again in an attempt to preserve them.  But I know my memories are fleeting, and I know that for me, writing is therapeutic, and I know that I have stories to tell - even if they are just for me to read and re-read for the rest of my life.

I also know I will probably have more to say.  Right now, the only thing that helps me is to talk about Tyler.  To tell stories about her life.  To tell stories about her death.  To tell stories about the things that remind me of her.  Thankfully, Kirk is an excellent listener and has thus far been willing to receive the constant flow of words.  But I have to start somewhere, and right now, I want to talk about tears.

Apparently, there are all sorts of kinds of tears.  Some I have cried myself.  Some I have watched others cry.  All I have learned from and grown from.

The first type to surprise me must have been tears of shock.  These are the types of tears that spring immediately to ones eyes with absolutely no warning in response to a giant slap in the face just dealt by a sudden reminder of the fleeting nature of mortality.  I watched as the first neighbor with whom I personally explained the loss responded first with eyes brimming with tears and second with words.  I saw the process repeated over and over again each time I blindsided an unwitting conversational partner with news they could never have fathomed.

Amy pointed it out most specifically when she showed me our text conversation from that evening.  We had been texting about the possibility of taking our kids on a joint camping trip this summer.  Amy had texted shortly after 5:00 pm: "We should go to Palisades camping!  It's so fun!"  I didn't respond on my drive home.  My next contact was to call her frantically looking for someone to take Ryder, but she was unfortunately out eating with her family.  The next text, and many after that, were Amy's offers of help and comfort, and we never made it back to what now seems like such an inconsequential conversation. When your world goes from planning a camping trip to receiving the news that a little girl is gone, those are tears of shock.

Perhaps the most common tears I saw were tears of empathy.  These tears flowed freely on Michelle's front lawn, cried by ward and neighborhood members connected to Tyler, Michelle, or me in various degrees.  I saw them again at the funeral, cried by those who couldn't help but imagine the loss of their own precious children.  I watched our Bishop cry these tears as he bore his testimony during the special Sunday service held for those who needed to express a testimony of the Lord's plan for each of us.  I saw him cry them again as he spoke of the Plan of Salvation at Tyler's funeral.  These are the tears referred to in the commandment that we "mourn with those who mourn."

Then there are tears of gratitude, a type I learned personally to cry.  The list of things for which I am grateful and which caused tears to spring to my eyes is incredibly lengthy, and the specifics are already fading.  But here are a few:

• Purple ribbons tied around the trees, mailboxes, and lampposts in our neighborhood
• The crowd of people singing hymns and primary songs on Michelle's lawn for three straight nights
• The women who received inspiration while decorating the cultural hall for the luncheon (and decorated with snowflakes without prior knowledge of their significance)
• Visiting teachers and neighbors who took over Adam's birthday cake 
• Peczuh Printing who ran copies of Tyler's program with absolutely no notice during their busy Sundance Film Festival schedule and refused to accept payment for the 295 copies of the program
• Nick and Diana's light display honoring Tyler
• Amy and Janene for including my boys in the acts of kindness by bringing them teddy bears to remind them of their Princess Ty

Similar to those are the tears of love.  I remarked to Kirk one morning that my cold heart simply didn't know how to receive so much love.  Continuous outpouring of love and concern via email, Facebook, and text messages sustained me when it seemed nothing else could.  I know it was the same for others.  My sister Lisa told me she installed Facebook on her phone because reading the messages and seeing the pictures others posted helped her feel comforted.  Then there were the hugs, the rearranged work schedules, the meals, the flowers, the prayers.  Some of the love shown wasn't even related to Tyler.  Kirk and I had gone to the young men's basketball game to watch them play with purple bands worn in tribute to Tyler.  I watched during the 4th quarter as the entire team threw the ball to one somewhat awkward boy who was the only member of the team to not score.  They passed to him 9 plays in a row, setting screens and clearing a straight path to the basket play after play until he finally made it.  Even their love for each other made me cry.  I told Kirk that people needed to stop being so nice to each other.  I just couldn't handle it!  I have recently learned that an outpouring of love can cause me to cry.

I was worried for awhile that I may not ever shed tears of loss.  I had seen them already on the cheeks of my sister, brother-in-law, parents, and husband.  But because of the trying circumstances of Wednesday evening, I had chosen to close my feelings off and be someone with whom the emergency personnel could communicate.  It wasn't until noon on Thursday when I read Kirk's post on Facebook that I was able to cry these important tears.  "As most of you know my niece passed away last night.  Tyler was two years old and she was more than a niece to me.  I had a chance to spend a lot of time with her and raise her as one of my own.  I was her second dad and being a dad of all boys she was my daughter.  I feel so honored to have the time with her I had.  I am thankful for the gospel and the knowledge that I will see her again.  God be with you Tyler until we meet again."  I shut myself in the principal's office at school and finally found my own tears of loss.

Kirk, on the other hand, cried his immediately.  I hope to never forget the tender emotions he displayed for nearly 48 hours after Tyler's death.  This was not something I had ever seen before from him, and it helped me to understand the depth of love he must have for me and for our boys.  But what Kirk found immediately, it took Adam a week to feel.  He did not cry when we told him about Tyler, and he refused the blessing of comfort Kirk offered to he kids.  He behaved in a stoic and reserved manner over the next few days, offering comfort to me whenever possible.  In fact, on Thursday, he gave up his afternoon recess to come to my classroom and see how I was doing.  He frequently said things like, "Mom, my goal is to make you laugh at least one time every day," or "I am going to hug you until you stop crying."  He discussed a few memories of Tyler in preparation for speaking at her funeral and and never once even paused.  Thankfully, on the day of the funeral, Adam finally found his own tears of loss.

A few times, I shed beauty-induced tears.  I looked at the things around me and just couldn't process their beauty through any other means.  This happened first when I finished Tyler's program.  Michelle and I were up until midnight finalizing font sizes and polka dot spacing when I finally deemed it ready for a test print.  I printed it at my house, then had to walk back to Michelle's.  When I looked at the final product, tears once again brimmed over my eyelids.  It was just so beautiful.  She was just so beautiful.  I opened Michelle's front door.  When she saw my tears, she looked at me with a bit of evident exasperation and said, "What are you crying about now?"  I withheld the program from her as I explained, "It should have been a birthday invitation.  Or a baptism announcement."  Some days it just hurt that the beautiful things were all being prepared for a devastating day.

I can't forget the other tears.  The hard tears.  Skye's tears as he hugged me just before leaving for the hospital and said over and over again, "Pray.  Just pray."  Michelle's tears when she got the phone call from Kirk and crumpled in my arms saying, "She's gone?  How can she be gone?  She was just here."  Kirk's tears as he sobbed uncontrollably during "Lullaby" as he watched footage of his sleeping Princess.  My mom's tears before she left to put Lisa, Brett and John back on a plane and explained, "I just want to put you all in one big house and never let you go."  

But it isn't all sadness.  There have definitely been tears of joy as well.  These tears tend to come when we sit around and tell our happy memories.  Tyler's shoes.  Her somewhat destructive nature.  Her incessant desire to be "pretty?"  These are the types of tears I cry when I look at her pictures or watch the video of her life that I was honored to compile.  These are the tears I cried when I realized the bagpipes were playing "Do You Want to Build a Snowman" at the cemetery.  These are the tears I cry when I remember that Tyler has a reserved seat for the Celestial Kingdom and that she will never have to endure the pains of this world.

When the tears come, I think of three things:

My first thought is, "If Michelle can do it, I can do it."

And my second thought is of the quote Michelle chose for the back of the funeral program.  I know that it is her testimony, and I know it is the why she can do it.  Joseph Smith said, "The Lord takes many away, even in infancy, that they may escape the envy of man, and the sorrows and evils of this present world; they were too pure, too lovely, to live on earth; therefore, if rightly considered, instead of mourning we have reason to rejoice as they are delivered from evil, and we shall soon have them again."  When the tears come in force, I try to remind myself that I have a reason to rejoice.

My final thought is of my family standing shoulder to shoulder at Tyler's funeral, singing the testimony Skye and Michelle chose for us to sing.  I think of my sister who, although she sang through tears on the first verse, held her chin up and clearly sang, "And when you don't understand the purpose of His plan, in the presence of your King, bow the knee."  (listen to the song here)

And remembering that moment now I remember to be grateful for one last type of tears: the tears that come when I am filled with the spirit of the Holy Ghost, here to comfort all of us in our times of need.  I know the tears are far from over.  But I also know my Savior, Jesus Christ, suffered not only for the sins of the world but suffered also every pain we will have to bear.  I know the Lord's plan truly is one of happiness, and I know that if I choose to live righteously, I will see Tyler reunited with her parents, her Uncle Kirk, her boys, and the host of others who love her so much.  I have never seen so many tears, but I also have never felt so much love.  I know that through all of these tears, we will be okay.

Some People Don't Like Me

I have been through a painful process over the last few years of realizing:

Some people don't like me.

I try to be friendly and cheerful all the time.  The consequence has been that throughout my life, most of the people that I have enjoyed being around have also liked me.  This has given me a somewhat delusional sense that all people like me.

But I have had plenty of opportunities, especially since entering my 30's, to realize that some people don't like me.

I have mostly realized this because they have told me so.  Point blank.  To my face.  Specifically informed me of the reasons why they don't like me.

Interestingly, the reasons some people tend not to like me have turned out to be some of the very same reasons why I like myself.

And that has been hard to handle.

I won't go into specifics, partly because three of the people who have had the courage to explain face to face why they don't like me are still friends of mine on Facebook and two others (who only explained why they sometimes don't like me) are related to me.  Also, I won't go into specifics because that isn't the point of this post.

Not only have I realized that some people don't like me, I have realized that some people won't like me.

I met a new person who doesn't like me this last week.  He also had the courage to tell me to my face exactly what he didn't like.  However, unlike the others who expressed themselves privately and whom I respect and continue to consider friends (despite their not always liking me), this person told me in front of my Dickens bosses, my cast, my sons, and his camera crew.  And as shockingly uncomfortable as the ensuing minutes were, I also got to realize something else.

Some people do like me.

Some people like me for ALL the exact reasons why a few people don't like me.

A recent Facebook quiz got it dead on:

Big Buddha, I am really sorry I cut you off.  I didn't mean to be rude; I was just looking for the efficient solution to the quandary in which we found ourselves.  Yes, I guess I do often respond quickly.  Yes, I speak very directly.  Yes, your pointing this out in front of everyone bothered me a whole lot more than I let on.

Some people don't like me.  It saddens me to see this list grow.  I'll do what I can to take your destructive criticism and make positive changes to how I interact, especially with strangers.  

But I like me.  So I won't change much.

The Night After Dickens

I get asked in nearly every radio and television interview, "You've been with the Dickens Festival for a long time now.  What makes you stay year after year?"

My answer for me is easy: family.

And yeah, I'm definitely talking about this one:

Gen 1: Mom and Dad; Gen 2: Michelle, Andrea, Jack; Gen 3: Alex, Dylan, Adam

But I am also talking about this one.

Some of them came to Dickens because they were my students. Some were already practically family. Some followed me over from other theater projects. Some joined their own family after watching the fun. Others truly just showed up the auditions hoping for a positive experience. But no matter where they came from, each of them ended up in the same place.  A Dickens family.

Which made the decision to trade this 44 person family for the 5 person one that lives within my same walls particularly difficult.  But last night I resigned, in my own quirky style, via poem.

The Night After Dickens
by Andrea K. Fife

‘Twas the night after Dickens and all through the streets
All the vendors were boxing their wares and their treats
And the boxes were wheeled through a room now so bare
It was hard to believe London had ever been there.
The orphans were headed straight home to their beds
With leftover soot still anointing their heads.
And having checked in every apron and cap,
I started to dream of my own winter’s nap.
I thought of five nights in consecutive years
When saying goodbye had brought nary a tear.
No “farewell,” no “so long”, no “pip cheerio”
For in only nine months, I’d be ready to go!
I would hold the auditions; I’d see my old friends.
I’d teach that old shuffle-step combo again.
But this year was different, I’d already decided
To leave this dear project o’er which I’d presided.
These five years were perfect, each one a delight,
But five years is five years.  Six wouldn’t seem right.
And so then I’d stay on for years seven and eight,
I’d get clear to ten without taking a break.
I’d be worn out and busy at Christmas each year,
And though I would certainly hold memories dear,
I’d miss out on football, I’d miss school productions,
I’d miss family parties, I’d miss my church functions.
I’d miss… well, I’d miss a lot more than I honestly know.
I have to step back and just watch my kids grow.
And so with great fondness for each of you now,
I take my own quiet last Dickens’ year bow.
Thank you for making this last year just right.
Happy Christmas to all!  And to all a good night.

I cried when I read the poem aloud to Kirk.  Alex cried when he asked me to read it to him.  It's an emotional departure for us all.  Which is why an incredible gift, orchestrated by my mom and given by the cast, means so much to me.

Some women have their fine china.  A prized possession they hope to someday pass on to posterity.  I don't have china, or quilts, or a cedar chest, but now I have a hand-painted porcelain nativity set purchased at the Dickens Festival by my very last cast.  I have wanted a nice nativity set since marrying 13 years ago, and this one is perfect.  The picture doesn't do justice to the reverence of the animals - one of my favorite features.  It doesn't highlight the tiny details - the lantern, the pottery, the baskets.  It doesn't capture the tears I shed when I realized what a gigantic gesture this family of mine had made for me.

I look forward to a lifetime of carefully unwrapping each delicate piece and placing it near the handcrafted stable.  Of picking up one particular Wise Man to see the insignia, "Dickens 2014."  Of remembering the people who were a part of not only my life, but the lives of my children.  Me from 29 to 33, Adam from 5 to 9, Alex from 3 to 7, and now Dylan at 5 - we have lived Dickens.  And I know our lives will forever be better for it.



Thank you not only to the cast of 2014, but to 2013, 2012, 2011, and 2010 as well.

In fact,

"Thank you very much."

This Week's Plate

Disclaimer: This post is intended neither as a complaint nor as a pat on my own back.  Please take it simply as statements of fact and accompanying reflections.

I've started a few different posts this year in which I intended to express some honesty over the struggles I've had the last few months, but I had a hard time putting it out there without sounding ungrateful.  My life is awesome.  I have an incredible husband, intelligent kids, a beautiful new house, a great job, plenty of friends, hobbies I enjoy... it seems completely unfair that I mention that some days I can barely convince myself to get out of bed.

But yesterday, my friend Amy re-posted a great article that helped me consider my exhaustion from a slightly different perspective.  Go ahead and read it here if you're interested.

Interestingly, I really don't find myself comparing my plate to that of others.  I have always firmly held to the following beliefs:

• Everybody gets to pick their own priorities
• It's totally okay to have different priorities than mine

So when somebody says, "I don't have time to sing in the Ward Choir," I promise I really don't think, "You don't have time? What are you doing with your 24 hours."  Because I know that I really do get to chose to put the things that are on my plate on my plate.  And I generally like having them there!

No, my problem over the last 10 weeks or so has been comparing my plate to my previous plates.  3 years ago, I performed in 3 shows, directed 2, and was completing my Masters degree.  And I felt vivaciously full of energy and like I could conquer the world.  I pulled all-nighters to get it all done.  I bounced right back and did it again!  I hiked.  I read.  I worked.  I blogged (a whole lot more than I do now).  

Now, I do the things I committed to.  Mostly.  I feel like I am getting things done, but not particularly well or in a particularly timely way.  I procrastinate terribly.  I do very little I feel I can be truly proud of, and there are piles of things that just don't get done.  Literally.  Piles.

My bedroom floor

What's wrong with my plate?

The other times I've tried to write this post, I didn't dare.  Every single thing on my plate is a good thing.  A thing that makes me happy.  A thing I want to do.

But I probably wouldn't sit down and eat everything on the dessert plate all at once.  [I say probably because I actually might.  But that would ruin the metaphor.]  I purposefully created the graphic to include things I love.  Things I have a really difficult time turning down.  But if I ate every single one of those, even over the course of a week (that's 2 desserts per day, folks), I would feel physically weighed down.  I'd probably get diabetes.  The doctor would probably tell me I could never eat frosting straight out of the can again.  And where would I be then?

I still don't know what's wrong with my plate.  Why it seems to have suddenly shrunk and refuses to hold all the desserts it once held.  But I don't want whatever the stress-level disease is equivalent to diabetes, that's for sure.  

To be honest, I'd rather fix the plate.  

But since that doesn't seem to be working, I may have to pass up a few desserts.

Default Parent Theory vs the Project Manager Approach

I read a pretty interesting blog yesterday.  To fully understand the direction of this post, you should probably read it too, here.  And then wander back to this blog to hear my take.

After reading this aloud to Kirk (omitting some of the words I don't like to say out loud), we agreed this "default parent" thing sounds exhausting!  We're grateful to have our own approach that, so far, works pretty well for us.  In the 22 hours since discussing our theory, the language has crept into our daily vernacular as we point out the parts of our kids lives over which we have become the "project manager."

Case in point.  Wednesday was Adam's first Pinewood Derby.  And, 6 days later, his big 4th grade castle project is due.  If we lived in a "default parent" household, one of us would be burned out and exhausted tonight.  Instead, Kirk acted as Project Manager of the derby:

And I headed up the castle project:

What does it mean to be the project manager?  The project manager is chiefly responsible for being aware of deadlines and requirements and should handle any logistics outside the reasonable scope of responsibility shouldered by the project-bearing child.  Trips to the store.  Power tools.  Brainstorming.  Re-focusing.  Motivation.  Scheduling.  Each of these duties fall to the Project Manager.

This is not to say the other parent is absolved of responsibility.  The Project Manager can delegate any portion of the project to the other parent who, as the other parent, is still required to be at least vaguely aware of deadlines and willing to help as needed.  I texted Michelle to arrange for red paint for the derby car's tail lights.  Kirk drilled the holes in the drawbridge.  I'm proud to say the Fife family acts as a team.

But as we discussed the internal workings of our household, we found that this Project Manager concept doesn't just apply to... well, projects.  We have each, over the years, stepped up and become Project Manager over the many tasks required of involved parents.

Kirk is Project Manager over daily homework assignments.
I am Project Manager over large school projects.
Kirk is Project Manager over administering medicine to sick children.
I am Project Manager of dentist appointments, well-child visits, and vaccinations.
Kirk is Project Manager of sports sign ups, practices, and fundraisers.
I am Project Manager of audition preparation, lessons, and rehearsals.
Kirk is Project Manager of making dinner.
I am Project Manager of meal planning.
Kirk is Project Manager of laundry.
I am Project Manager of new clothing purchases and meeting school uniform requirements.
Kirk is Project Manager of dinner.
I am Project Manager of breakfast.
Kirk is Project Manager of car maintenance.
I am Project Manager of home organization.
Kirk is Project Manager of throw-up and potty accidents relating to children or pets.
I am gratefully not involved in any way.  :)
Kirk is Project Manager of electronics, subscriptions, and utilities.
I am Project Manager of family pictures, traditions, and holidays.
Kirk is Project Manager of lost items.
I am Project Manager of keeping Kirk busy finding lost items.  ;)
Kirk is Project Manager of buying birthday party presents.
I am Project Manager of Christmas presents.

In our house, there is no "default parent."  Our kids generally go to whichever parent happens to be available for the solution to their dilemma, unless their question is specifically related to a clearly defined Project Manager.  For example, the kids would not ask Kirk a question about practicing the piano, and they mostly know better than to ask me questions about their video games.  We laughed when we read the part of the "default parent" blog that mentioned the calendar.  We both share a Google calendar that includes not only the details of our individual schedules, but also the daily obligations of each child.  At any given moment, we are equally aware of the schedules and commitments of our kids, and on any given day we are equally involved in pulling off the intricate plans required to get each kid where he belongs.

It can still be exhausting, for sure, but after contemplating what it would be like to be primarily responsible for everything on the list, I am grateful that the "Project Manager" approach works for us.