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.

The Summer of Love and Respect

He held the sign slightly askew. It read: Jesus Saves The Hungry. Please help. As I drove by, he danced lightly back and forth on the sidewalk as if he had to pee, a disheveled Mr. Bojangles with a painful smile across his face like a stained crease.

Somewhere deep inside my tired heart, I heard the music, but then it was gone and all I could think about was will Jesus save my parents?
Please help.


I didn't hold my breath and I wasn't angry or resentful. I only drove back from the store to my parents' sweet little home here in Oregon, to continue to figure it all out with my sister.

Our father is dying, the surreality of that painfully clear now that we're here, his body shifting and slipping away to cancer like a Dali painting sitting out in the hot sun. The chemotherapy is most likely to be discontinued, with hospice to be brought in. Our mother, chronically ill with endless pain for decades, is desperately fearful she'll lose him soon; we all are. Time is that selfish friend who prefers to hang with the fun kids, not the sick or the old or the misfits. But at least our parents renewed their marriage vows two weeks ago, which is something they wanted to do for the last few years.

Of all the emotional dysfunction that can plague even the best of families, ours has thankfully fallen away for now like chunks of ice from a melting glacier, the global warming of our hearts uniting a family that once was: Mom, Dad, Sister and Brother.

When we were scared as children, they held us close. When we were sick, they cleaned us up and told us they loved us, that it would all be okay. Now our folks are the ones who are scared and sick, and so we reciprocate with love and respect. Our children will hopefully do the same for us, just as their children will do the same for them.


This is why the Mama and I made the decision last year and this year to visit family with Beatrice and Bryce, to immerse them in our collective stories, of past and present, from my family in the West to the Mama's on the Mississippi, and as many other visits in between we could and can still muster, "God willing and the creek don't rise" as my father always says.

My girls aren't here with me now. I miss them and the Mama terribly. I miss holding them close and telling them I love them.

But right now I must hold my parents close and tell them everything will be okay. Jesus saves the hungry, Mom. We're here to help.

Mr. Bojangles, dance.


"The measure of a life is a measure of love and respect -- so hard to earn, so easily burned. In the fullness of time, a garden to nurture and protect. The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect -- the way you live, the gifts that you give. And the fullness of time is the only return that you expect." 


--Neil Peart

Bea just woke up. When will everybody else?

I just put Beatrice down for nap. It's been a pleasure playing with her and watching her play on daddy daycare day, holding her close to me while she sucks her thumb and strokes her fuzzy (blanket). I've been gone all week on a business trip, so each day I longed to talk to her and Mama on speaker phone.

Through my entire crazy week, I kept thinking about the Jane Doe rape in Richmond on October 24.

I only heard about it last weekend and it floored me. It's been a bad enough recently with the unemployment numbers, the Fort Hood shootings and now the disgruntled ex-employee shooting in Orlando.

I have people in my life who have been assaulted, including children - boys and girls. It only takes one for me to know that we're far from being an elevated species.

What's even more disturbing to me is that the media coverage of unemployment and shootings completely overshadowed that of the Richmond rape.

I played with Bea for a couple of hours this afternoon - read books, chased her around the living, fed her lunch, put her to bed.

Jane Doe was raped for 2 1/2 hours by six maybe seven men while at least another dozen watched. She was betrayed by a supposed friend who was one of the attackers. She is 16 years old.

Yes, the victim has been getting lots of support and there have been local rallies and letters, but where's the broader intervention and outreach?

Where's the fucking national outrage? Really, where is it? We're angry when disease takes our loved ones and we wear the ribbons of cause, but who wears the purple ribbons?

I cry just typing this up. Earlier in the week and emailed journalist Patty Fisher from the San Jose Mercury News, the first article I read about the attack. I asked her if she could a follow up piece about what communities are doing to address this complete disregard for human dignity and the utter sexual objectification and lack of respect for women. She said she'd try.

It's hard enough raising girls, but Patty wrote something that struck me:

But I think it's even harder for parents of boys. How do you raise a son to be caring and responsible in a culture that too often portrays women as whores and men as warriors and thugs?

Why aren't parents taking more responsibility to instill love and respect in their children's hearts? Is it really those of lower socioeconomic status who breakdown in their parenting leadership ability? I don't think so. I think it can happen anywhere at anytime. Nobody in our world today deserves to be treated this way.

So for those of us - particularly parents or soon-to-be parents - who have the capacity to control our actions and choose the higher path of respect and dignity, we need a call to action of the highest order to change this behavior, to help curb as much of the violence we can, to work in our communities and our children until they understand what it means to elevate and not to hate.

Those who have lesser capacity and ability to do this need our help.

For my Christian friends and family out there, pray the prayers of personal strength and responsibility, because God empowers us with these and choice, the ability to elevate and the ability to teach.

I implore other daddy bloggers out there, Mocha Dad especially, to keep writing about domestic violence and abuse, to push for action and change, to get involved and make change.

I implore those of you who have been abusers, who have turned your lives around, to get involved in programs that educate and elevate others.

I've reached out to Frank Baird, the founder of Walk a Mile in Her Shoes, to organize a Santa Cruz walk for the women, men and children in our communities who have been assaulted, abused and/or raped. I hope to hear from him soon.

Bea just woke up. When will everybody else?

You may be right,
it's all a waste of time.
I guess that's just a chance I'm prepared to take,
a danger I'm prepared to to face,
cut to the chase --
what kind of difference can one person make?
Cut to the chase.

--Neil Peart