Our Quality-of-Life Difference

In that moment, I exploded. 

It wasn't their fault. I was late picking them up from school knowing that I had a work call I had to get back to. I had sat in the car, getting more anxious with every second that passed, texting them to hurry up.

I called our oldest Beatrice. "C'mon, I have to get back," I said. "We're coming," she said. Seconds passed. Then a minute. The rubicon of me not making it back in time for my call was coming.

It was a busy time at work for me. Still is. The weight of things I had to do combined with my perception of the state of world and our country became an avalanche of glacial darkness. I could feel the impotent rage not far behind. 

I texted both Beatrice and our youngest Bryce. They said they were coming. Finally, I could see them approaching the car. It had only been a few minutes, but it felt like a span of geological time. 

They got in the car. Bryce said hi. Beatrice said she was really tired. I don't even remember what I said at first, just that my voice escalated with rage as I pulled into the street to drive home. I yelled and pounded on the steering wheel. I vaguely remember babbling about how hard I work for our family to support them, and how I have so many things to do, and how they didn't seem to care about that.

Then it was over. Neither of them said a word. I'm not even sure they breathed for a minute after that. I know I didn't. I felt horrible, but I was still mad. We drove in silence for a few minutes. I kept my gaze forward watching the road ahead. 

My anger drained away and I felt empty and ashamed. I knew I had scared them. "I'm sorry I yelled at you both," I said. "I'm just really busy and frustrated about work right now." I sounded muted, like I was on the other side of a room from them speaking quietly. No one spoke the rest of the way home.

Once we got home, I told my wife Amy that I had "flipped my lid" and yelled at the kids. I then went straight upstairs for my work call. I struggled to stay focused during the call, but I got through it. 

Afterwards I got the opportunity to apologize again to both of them. Bryce seemed aloof about what had happened (such a teen) but appreciated my apology. Beatrice and I had a positive, reflective conversation about what had happened. She appreciated my apology, too, and apologized for not hurrying to the car. I told her it wasn't their fault, because it really wasn't. We told each other we loved each other and reconciled. 

It's rare that Amy and I blow up at the kids, or at each other, but it's happened over the years. We're human, but usually centered, empathic, respectful, and mindful in how we treat each other and communicate with each other, and with our kids. I'm still the grumpy dad sometimes, yes, and we're still the parents and they are the teens. We are all sometimes overwhelmed by our own ancient limbic system and biological breakdowns. We know they're learning to adult, and we want them to model loving and resilient humans who understand life can feel overwhelming at times, but how we react to it makes all the difference in our quality of life. 

So, for my birthday today, I will celebrate my family and our quality-of-life difference.

Be Quiet Inside And Enjoy The Ride

"And nothing seems to fit
And things don't go your way
You know you've had enough
You can't take another day
Where to go and what to do
You've got those bills to pay
You're really not alone you know
'Cause everybody says
Why me?
Why me?"

–Styx, Why Me?

The ceiling fan remote was gone and not where it was supposed to be. I always left it right on the second shelf next to my side of the bed. But it was gone. I scanned all the shelves. Nothing. I looked on the floor in and around the shelves and under the bed. No fan remote.

I wanted to turn the ceiling fan on because I was warm and I had some work calls to make. The office nook in our bedroom is a great place to make video calls because of the lighting, and my wife Amy and I both use it. But the only way to turn the fan on is with the remote. There is no wall switch. It was just easier to install that way. 

I called downstairs to where Amy was working. "Amy, where's the fan remote?"

"Isn't it where it we leave it? On the shelf?"

Sigh. "No, it's not there. I can't find it anywhere."

Now, if anyone can find anything in our house, it's Amy. Mom always knows where everything is. Usually. And if she doesn't, she has an idea of how to find it, like with our oldest daughter Beatrice's phone recently. Just like my mom did when I was a kid and a teenager. Usually the thing I couldn't find was right in front of me, and my mom always found it for me and reminded me it was right in front of me. Beatrice and I both still do that today and Mom always comes through. Our youngest daughter, Bryce, doesn't have the same debilitating lack of awareness that me and Bea have. 

To be fair, it isn't always that we can't find something, it's that we've gotten lazy and overly dependent on Mom, because Mom usually knows where that something is. That's not something to be proud of, but mercy me, that's why we love Mom so much.

This time she didn't know. She looked everywhere I looked, and more places, but didn't find it.

I was frustrated and mad. "Where the hell could it be, Amy? I leave it in the same place every single time!"

"Me too," Amy said. "Maybe it was the house sitter recently who misplaced it. Or maybe one of the girls."

"So frustrating," I said.

"I know," Amy said. 

My head swirled with questions: Can we purchase another ceiling fan remote and program it?  How much will that cost? Would we have to take the fan apart again? And then what if we can't replace it? How the hell are we going to use the fan if we can't? Why do I have to deal with this now?

Why me?!?

And there it was -- why me. Amy had already left me alone knowing there was nothing she could do to console me. This was my process. Immediate frustration that constricted endless possibilities and viable answers to a thin red line. A line that lead to nowheresville. The reality was that the ceiling fan remote most likely could be replaced and that it was just a transitory inconvenience of time and money. It was really more about the world imploding with uncontrollable chaotic fallout, burning my brain and tricking me, once again, into believing that this would cause me unending angst.

I purged the chaotic fallout and realized, yet again, this was nothing to lose my head over. Relax. If you can't find it, there will be a solution (what Amy always says, which is why I love her so much). That's when I checked in our bed, and buried snugly in between the mattresses was the ceiling fan remote. Later I would find out that Beatrice was the one who left it in the bed accidentally. 

Sigh. Everything is where it's supposed to be, including me, and I just have to be quiet inside and enjoy the ride. It will all work out ultimately. 

But just in case, I tied a string around the remote and attached it to the shelf. 

Stuck in the Middle with Me

"Clowns to the left of me!
Jokers to the right!
Here I am stuck in the middle with you..."

—Stealers Wheel, Stuck in the Middle with You

My mind is mired in work. I'm stuck in a problem; I'm stuck at a light. We are stuck at a light. I'm driving my family somewhere. To where again? I'm not sure. I don't remember. The light's still red. 

How do we solve for our growth problem at work? The market's never been more in our favor, but hitting a wall trying to figure it out. We've created the right services, but what else was our consultative approach missing? 

Frustrating. Where are we driving to again? Down to the water? Our dog Jenny's in the car, so we must be going somewhere to walk her. To the dog beach maybe? Where everyone takes their dogs? It's not that far away; it's time to take a work break anyway. The light's still red.

It's hot. We're having a warm spell in spring. The drought is still with us and isn't going anywhere. We're using too much water at home. Have to curb what we're using each day. 

Red light. Inflation. Recession fears. War in Ukraine. Work stress. Drought. Family stress. Tweens and teens growing up—

The light's now green. There are many cars behind me and some in front of me. We're supposed to cross the road, right? Turn left? I'm not sure and I don't commit either way. My family is talking to each other; I don't know what they're saying. 

My wife asks me if I'm going straight. That's when this younger guy in a solar company work car (I can see the word "solar" clearly but that's all) goes around me on the right to cross the highway and I hear:

"Why don't you turn on your fucking signal!"

It feels like slow motion, but now I feel anger quickly. I raise my right hand and flip him off and mouth the words "fuck you." I don't say them out loud, but our kids in the back seat see what I do, feel my anger and frustration. I want to punch him in the face. My wife Amy feels my anger and frustration. It's not a great moment for me. 

"Are you going to go?" Amy asks me.

I cross the highway and the young guy in the solar car is right in front of me. He turns left and we turn right. 

As I refocus on the moment and driving my family safely in the car, I say, "I'm so sorry family. That was not how you're supposed to respond to people like that."

"It's okay, Dad. He was being mean to you," our oldest Beatrice says. 

"Yeah, how rude," our youngest Bryce says.

But I could feel Amy's eyes on me. We work so hard to manage our emotions and respond positively to even the most negative of situations, especially in front of the girls. We talk about it every week at our family meetings. Ugh, but I blew it by flipping the guy off. 

"Again, I'm sorry," I say.

"It's okay. It happens," she says. "But we should call that guys company and report him. He represents his company driving that car and cursing at us like that is subpar."

"Agreed," I say. 

Our girls concurred, "That's right!"

I smile. We've got each other's backs. As adults, we're always stuck at red lights mired in adult problems, and if we can take a break, we should take one. We can't control how others respond to us, but we are responsible of how we react and interact, no matter how we feel. Always stuck in the middle with me, that is. 

Mercy me, that beach break was nice. 

Let It Rest

"I'm alright
Nobody worry 'bout me
Why you got to gimme a fight?
Can't you just let it be?"

–Kenny Loggins, I'm Alright

It stopped working for no reason. We'd been driving over three hours to my sister's house and listening to Songs of America: Patriotism, protest, and the music that made a nation, an inspiring new book collaboration from Jon Meacham and Tim McGraw, when the Apple CarPlay software connection stopped working. I swapped out my phone for my wife's, but neither one worked. So odd because it had never happened before. I realized that software can hiccup and yet was still immediately obsessed with why the heck it stopped working.

I unplugged and plugged in our phones multiple times, but nothing.

"Let it rest," my wife Amy said.

"Let it rest?" I said.

"Yes, let it rest."

"That's not a thing."

"Sure it is. Things get tired and need to rest."

"Nope, not a thing."

So I fiddled with it for a few more minutes and then gave up. We visited with my sister and then went to my high school reunion, and on the next day we went out to lunch. The CarPlay connection worked again as if it had never stopped.

"See, I told you," Amy said.

"Damn, what the heck?" I said. "It's still not a thing."

"Yes, it is."

We laughed. After fun weekend of reunion and family time with my sister, niece and great niece, we returned home to find that the gophers had returned to our backyard. In the 13 years we've lived in our house, I can recall only one or two times when we've had gophers in our backyard.

A few months ago I wouldn't have stressed on it as much since we'd let our backyard go. The reason being that our pet rabbit Dragonlily, only a little over a year old, had free reign in our backyard and ate everything in sight. But at the end of April we upgraded our yard with new sod, flagstone and a rabbit run (so our bunny wouldn't eat everything in sight).

We did it all ourselves and we were super proud of it, just like we did when we first moved in all those years ago. And then the gophers came back. With a vengeance. Freshly pushed up dirt piles along the edge of our new flagstone and along the new grass. Plus, we had notice some strange yellow spots on the lawn over the past month and now wondered if it was them -- the friggin' gophers -- digging under the new sod. I tried to flood them out, but that didn't work.

"The gopher can be a friend to bun-bun," Amy said, referring to our rabbit Dragonlily, after I came in cursing about the latest mounds of freshly dug-up dirt.

"No gopher friends," I said.

"C'mon, Sweetie. It'll be fine. A little gopher or two aren't hurting anyone."

"But it's not fine and it's hurting me; you know how much work went into the yard. Should I just let this rest, Sweetie? Maybe it'll just fix itself?"

I tried to say it with a frustrated wink and smile, and she gave me a pass thankfully. She knows how I get and is always much better at letting go than me. Even our rabbit was trying to tell me to chill out, eating one of our flowers when he had a few minutes out of his run, two feet from a fresh gopher hole.

But to no avail; I headed for the local ACE hardware store and asked one of the guys that worked there what humane gopher/mole traps they had. "None that work," he told me. Then I asked for the gopher/mole gas, which looked like little sticks of dynamite with a short fuse. Really.

I wanted this gopher or gophers gone before we left on our family vacation. I lit one little stick of dynamite gas and push it into a hole and covered it with dirt. It was super stinky, too. I did two of these in two different gopher holes, and of course while doing this, I couldn't help remember the scenes in the classic comedy Caddyshack, with Bill Murray trying to blow up the gopher. And the gopher always got away, even after the golf course was completely destroyed.

On the morning we left for our family vacation, I went out to the still dark backyard and noticed a freshly dug out mound of gopher dirt in between two pieces of lovely new flagstone.

I audibly sighed and shook my head.

Nothing to do but let it rest. They can have it all (for now).

I'm alright. I can just let it be.

To Always See the Squirrels Through the Trees

“When you were young and your heart was an open book
You used to say live and let live
(You know you did, you know you did, you know you did)
But if this ever-changing world in which we live in
Makes you give in and cry—
Say live and let die…”

—Paul McCartney

The world around us slowed to a near stop. Focused and fiery, we ignited the air between us.

"Do you want to go home?"

There we were: a battle of pure impulse and reactive wills. I held Bryce firmly by her shoulders after I had placed her in the shopping cart seat. Bryce held me fast with her eyes, defiant fury unleashed over and over again like rapid-fire solar flares. Shards of melting self-control rained down upon us.

"No, no, no!"

I started to lift her out of the cart and then...

Twenty minutes earlier I knew it would be a stretch with me in charge and taking both girls to Trader Joe's for our weekly shopping run. As soon as we got to the store both girls wanted the kiddie shopping cart to push around, but there was only one, which was how the fracas began. Since Thursday, the Mama has been in the classes to become a certified instructor for Kidpower, and I've been helping case for the children more than usual, especially this weekend.

For those keeping score at home, Kidpower Teenpower Fullpower International, known as Kidpower for short, is a global nonprofit leader in personal safety and violence prevention education.

I'm very proud of the Mama doing this, and I of course will support and help in any way I can. But any parent responsible for the lion's share of childrearing, or any portion of it, will tell you that it's hard enough taking one young child to the grocery store (or any store that's not a toy store).

But two young children, one of whom is the Brycinator? C'mon. Lovely squirrels they are, but still.

...and then I stopped myself to channel the Mama and principles of positive discipline. Beatrice looked at me as if saying, You can do it Daddy.

Get into your child's world.

"Bryce, I know you want to go home, but why don't you help me and Bea find the Tiki Guy so you can get a sucker and Daddy will shop super fast? Then we'll go to the duck park."

"Okay."

That's when Beatrice exclaimed: "I see the Tiki Guy, there in the surfboard!"

And we were off, suckers in hand. Super fast the shopping was, and when I couldn't find something on the Mama grocery list within 20 seconds, then I quickly asked one of the friendly Trader Joe's employees. Finding the cute little stuffed Tiki Guy hidden in plain sight throughout the store is always a fun distracting pastime for kid's at Trader Joe's, and it certainly helped me. Ultimately Bryce and I survived and Beatrice was happy to help me carry some of our goods in the little shopping cart.

Yep, the part when the Daddy's in charge of the girls and grocery shopping becomes a precarious balance of emotional intelligence and a deadly race against end of times.

Plus there's always a park to play in for the aftermath. Ah, to always see the squirrels through the trees. 

"What does it matter to you?

When you got a job to do

You got to do it well

You got to give the other fellow—"

Love.