The Lost Art of Not Fast Forwarding Life

She pushed her down, then gave her a hug; the inverse relationship of a warm and cuddly contradictory B-hive.

And so it goes for siblings -- brothers and sisters alike from any background. I showed some colleagues the other day pictures of Bea and Bryce roughhousing on the couch, and then we all joked about how it's the eldest sibling's responsibility to keep down the younger while protecting her at the same. Or more precisely, the alternating keep-down-protection plays that occur with regularity throughout life.

Because it is theater of sorts, the dramedy of watching your little girls become aware (and wary) of each other, the elder watching the younger with sick fascination.

Now that Bryce is only two weeks from turning one, and pretty much walking and squawking, soon she'll be able to keep up with her big sister at every turn.

Push down -- hug -- push down -- hug -- push down -- hug -- pull up -- love -- hate -- love again --

If you have brothers or sisters, you've lived it out. Same if you have children of your own.

Watching them laugh and play and cry together (Bea always plugs her ears when Bryce cries), I can only hope that dramedies that play out through childhood, teenage-land and adulthood never escalate to familial excommunication.

The Mama and I keep each other in check about fast forwarding too much, to instead live in and through each moment. We'll try to instill this in the girls as well. But that doesn't mean we don't plan ahead; planning ahead today means being highly adaptable and flexible.

It's the escalation to excommunication that can never be planned for though, and where adaptability and flexibility come in mental-health handy. We grow up and out, and as parents can only hope that our children can let go, forgive and forget, regardless of what happened. Since as siblings, some of us lived through it, and the reality is we don't really ever let go, forgive or forget, we just live in relative shades of each that cast shadows on our hearts. Blood and friendship can separate with age, to never mingle again.

Rewind to now and the love and beauty of our daughters' budding relationship.

Mama, break the fast-forward button. Please.

The Daddy K files: The sugar-and-spice myth debunked

Recently on some news radio show, I heard that women may be dirtier than men – i.e., they have more strains of bacteria on their skin than men do.

I was floored. I had to pull over and hyperventilate. Actually that was because I had arrived at work and had to go inside. And work.

I'm not sure if the sugar-and-spice myth is cross-cultural, but this anthropology minor has always been fascinated by it. Growing up, girls were ethereal and angelic. Even the anomalies of tom boys fell into a "not of this world" category. Anatomically speaking, girls were as seamless and smooth as the Barbie's we observed with scientific fascination (while we giggled obsessively at the curves and valleys).

Bathrooms were for boys to do their dirty business, but solely for the beautification of girls. In fact, I believed the rumor that public women's restrooms in restaurants, hotels and elsewhere were nothing more than elegant buffets and glittery lounges with eunuchs swinging feather fans.

Even when I grew up and lived with women, the illusion remained. The greatest magicians of today and yesterday (predominantly men) have nothing on the female sleight of hand.

Pregnancy pulled the curtain back a bit, but it was always me who left the bathroom shamed, odiferous air wafting after me like the guilt from a night of nacho/beer binging.

But now that I have a baby daughter, I know the devastating truth. It was horrifying at first, the stark reality slapping me across the face multiple times each day. I couldn't eat or sleep for weeks.

I'm better now; this book has been a Godsend.

Gentlemen, hold my hand. It'll be okay.

Girls poop. A lot.

Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya…