Decisions, decisions, decisions

Nobody puts the FUN in dysFUNction like my family. Oh, don't even try to think you can compete. You'll be embarrassed by the effort. Oh wait ... I should probably be embarrassed myself even admitting this. Probably.

The thing is we are a stubborn lot. We are opinionated but yet can't make decisions. And yes, all of us 8 kids are like that ... to varying degrees. How did we get this way? Do we blame Mom? Dad? Our Scandinavian heritage? (Possibly, but I know some stubborn people who don't have any Norse running through their veins.)

This weekend, while I as Up North, this dysfunction reared its ugly head. It wasn't a fight. It wasn't wicked. It wasn't hostile. It was just, well, a waste of time, really. My Saturday evening with three of my sisters was lost to a conversation that had no end. Like a dog chasing its tail, at some point, we had to surrender and change the subject.

I'm embarrassed to say what we were talking about. My dad turns 80 next month and there seems to be a upwards of 10 ideas how that momentous occasion should be spent. The sisters I was with had close to the same idea on the opposite end of the spectrum as my parents. The siblings not present at the impromptu round table didn't get a vote (sorry)!

My task today, if you will, was to meet with Mom and Dad and find a middle ground. I was the only one at their house, but I sat there feeling like something between a federal mediator, a referee and a lawyer. First, I realized Mom and Dad weren't on the same page with this event so it's no wonder the rest of us are scattered in our opinions.

If I was a lawyer (and I just might change my profession after my success today), the questioning on this deal would sound like this:

"Dad, regarding your children, did they or did they not say you could decide how to celebrate your birthday?" They did, he responds. "Then you shall have your party."

"Mom, regarding making and decorating a cake, do you or do you not always get extremely stressed out about baking and creating the perfect cake?" I do, she responds. "Then we shall call a bakery."

And so on and so on. I was successful in finding a compromise of sorts that I hope pleases (or a least appeases) every one.

Now the next points of dysfunctional debate will include, but not be limited to: So who's going to order the cake? Who's going to decorate the hall? Who's buying the buns? Are we giving a present besides the party? Should we have punch or just have soda? Should we do black balloons or will that look like a funeral?

Decisions, decisions, decisions. Good thing we can all agree on one thing: We love each other. "And can you confirm for the court that indeed that is all that really matters?" Yes, I can confirm, I said.

Case closed.