Some Things Are Not A Choice

Checking first is critical. Always has been. Especially when there's an agreed-upon plan with the adults in charge. Meaning us, the parents. Checking with us first before they, our kids, change the plan.

For example, if the plan is, you, our children, will wear your masks inside when over at one of our pod homes, then you wear your masks inside. Pod homes meaning the families we rotate with a few times a week to watch each other's kids. Our kids get to play with their friends after school, and the parents get a break for a few hours after school. 

Even if the adult in charge at that point and time in the house they were all in says it's okay to not wear masks, our children know they are supposed to check first with us before they do anything different than the agreed-upon plan. One of their friends didn't wear a mask inside, then others joined in, including our children. 

After we went camping recently and were around a lot of people we did not know, even though we wore our masks and practiced COVID-19 safety protocols, we still were around a lot of different people. That, combined with the fact that another one of our pod families were around others indoors without masks, and we decided it was for the best that our girls wear their masks inside when at the other pod families that following week. That included our own home when it was our turn during that week.

Like checking first, some things are not a choice is another Kidpower mantra we repeat daily. And no matter the COVID-19 fatigue we've all been feeling, and mercy me have we been feeling it, it doesn't change how we practice health and safety protocols during a pandemic. This is true for our pod families and they all want to be safe as well. 

It's been nearly a year since covid lockdown and distance learning for us where we live. And it sucks. Super sucks. We've done well as a family, and with our friends and pod families, but it still super sucks. We also don't disparage our friends because our kids decided to change the plans and take their masks off, no matter if the adult in charge said it was okay. We're all exhausted from this pandemic. Again, it super sucks. 

Both our daughters tried to make the case that, since this was an agreement they didn't agree with, that it was okay to take off their masks. And we again reminded them, some things are not a choice and that we always check first with us before the plan is changed. 

What is the natural consequence to be though? Should our daughters not be allowed to get together with the pods and friends for a week? That was our idea at first, and we posed this question to the parents in the Positive Discipline class we're in. The consensus was, no. Punitive discipline does not foster learning the right lessons, and especially not after the fact. Keeping communication open and continuing to be clear about the plan is key: thank you for telling us and what could you/we do differently next time before making a decision to change the plan. Always check first.

Children and teens don't have the capacity for consistent and rational decision making. Good God, so many adults don't either. We believe in including our daughters in the decision-making process, even though obviously we are the parents, the adults in charge. 

This is why our family meetings are so important every week. Why personal responsibility and accountability are so important today, and tomorrow when they're teens. One of the parents in our class shared that in their friend pod, covid spread quickly due to not practicing safety protocol. Here was the natural consequence to learn from. Our oldest Beatrice realized that it wasn't just about potentially exposing themselves to the virus, it was about exposing us to it, her parents, who were more likely to get sick than either her or her sister. 

No matter how tired we all are, some things are not a choice.  

That Bastard of a Monkey

"It's not a habit, it's cool, I feel alive
If you don't have it you're on the other side
I'm not an addict, maybe that's a lie..."

–K's Choice, Not an Addict

She knew when I cheated. The first two years were the hardest, and covering up the few cheats were exercises in futility; the stench never leaves the clothes after even just one cigarette, and the residue left in the mouth and throat is unmistakable, no matter the mouth wash or breath mints. I convinced myself that it was okay, that each one was the last cheat. It was such a difficult monkey on my back.

However, after the first two years of quitting in 2002, it became literally a breath of fresh air. I didn't miss it after that. It had been nearly 20 years since I first smoked those nasty clove cigarettes that eventually led to my pack a day cigarette habit. Even with smoking decreasing everywhere, I'm surprised / not surprised when I still see smokers on the streets, in parks, on the beaches, etc. And now vaping is more prevalent that ever, which is nothing more than another way of getting the nicotine smack monkey on your back. And this is something we've talked to our girls about since vaping is has been marketed to younger school-age kids.

My quit date is still a very important date to me, even with the cheats. It's also our oldest daughter's birthday. And my wife Amy wouldn't marry me unless I quit. She had smoked a little herself when we first met, but had long since quit.

If you've been a smoker, then you know how tough it is to quit. You also know how easy it is to start again. I had quit multiple times prior to the official quit, failing each and every time. Nicotine is such a highly addictive drug, and even though it doesn't give you the same "high" as other addictive drugs, the vicious reward cycle is one of the strongest.

According to recent research:

Nicotine stimulates the release of dopamine in neurons that connect the nucleus accumbens with the prefrontal cortex, amygdala, hippocampus, and other brain regions; this dopamine signal “teaches” the brain to repeat the behavior of taking the drug. 

The amount of dopamine released with any given puff of a cigarette is not that great compared to other drugs, but the fact that the activity is repeated so often, and in conjunction with so many other activities, ties nicotine’s rewards strongly to many behaviors that we perform on a daily basis, enhancing the pleasure and the motivation that we get from them. 

Smokers’ brains have learned to smoke, and just like unlearning to ride a bike, it is incredibly hard to unlearn that simple, mildly rewarding behavior of lighting up a cigarette.

Columbia University researchers Denise B. Kandel and Eric R. Kandel have identified a molecular mechanism underlying nicotine’s gateway effect: Nicotine encourages expression in the reward circuit of FOSB, a gene that underlies the learning processes described earlier. Thus, nicotine makes it easier for other drugs to teach users’ brains to repeat their use.

Smoking seems to both enhance and prolong the pleasure of other activities. The reinforcement-enhancing effect applies also when obtaining nicotine from e-cigarettes.

Not to mention that cigarettes cause more than 480,000 premature deaths in the United States each year, which is about 1,300 deaths every single day. There's enough research out there today accessible to all of us that underscores the dangers of smoking.

I empathize with addicts of all kinds. I do. Unfortunately it's in my genes. I also know the health benefits of quelling an addiction, especially one like smoking cigarettes. Because you don't choose to smoke once you've started, the only choice you have is not to smoke. Addiction is selfish that way. (Learned that from Nicotine Anonymous.)

Recently I was on my way to one of my Natural Bridges State Park beach workouts, and a woman had just finished smoking a cigarette. I didn't see her smoke it, but as she walked in front of me to cross the street, I could smell it. The visceral memories of that smell reminded me all the times I smelled that way. That bastard of a monkey on my back dug its rusted nails into my skin and I literally flinched. Not because I missed it; I'm way past that now. Because I worry it could still kill me someday, just like it continues to kill 1,300 people per day.

God bless you, Brothers and Sisters. The only choice is not to.

The Friend in Family

She asked me to dump the turkey carcass into the green can. The clippings can. The one for grass, weeds, branches, etc.

“Are you serious?” I said.

She smiled and said, “Yes, why?”

“Why would you put the turkey into the clippings can?”

“Because it’s organic; I do it every year.”

I thought about it for a minute. I didn’t think that was right and would swear that if the trash collectors caught it, they’d tag her can. A tag that read something like This is a notice of non-collection because your can is contaminated. 

“You all right? You need me to walk you through it?” she said.

Now she was just being a smart ass and trying to be funny.

“No, I’ll go do it.”

And I did. I dumped the carcass out of the plastic bag it was in and on top of the branches and grass before. I stared down into the can and thought, There’s no friggin’ way they’re taking this.

“They’re going to tag your can,” I said when I came back in the house.

“No, they are not. I told you I do it every year. You going to be okay?” Again, my sister shared her cute snark. She leaned in to give me a fake supportive hug and I moved away.

“Ha. I’m good, they’re just not going to take it,” I said, smiling.

“Yes, they will. It’s just turkey bones. You can put those down your garbage disposal.”

I laughed. God, you really sound like Dad, I thought. That would break the garbage disposal.

A while later, the Mama (what I lovingly call my wife), looked it up online and sure enough, you don’t put turkey carcasses into your clippings can. Even my sister’s son, my nephew back from his second year in law school, agreed.

“So,” my sister said to me, “go dig it out then.”

“I ain’t digging anything out,” I said.

We laughed. It was funny. And I still thought her can was going to get tagged.

A day later we packed up our things and headed home. It was another very nice Thanksgiving with my sister and her grown children. We also got to visit with my newborn Great Niece, my niece’s baby girl, and she was such a delight. The newest member of our extended family, today.

We’ve been going to my sister’s for Thanksgiving the past five years now, starting the year after both our parents passed away. It’s very important to my sister and I and our families, even if we only see each a few times per year. Since we were children and for most of our lives, we've been very close.

The year our parents died was a rough year for us all, my mom leaving us four months after my dad due to a health complication we knew nothing about until it was too late. And then there was the in-between time before she passed that went okay until it didn’t when my mom stayed with my sister, before we had taken her in and then I returned her back to Oregon. And then there was the six years before that when my sister and I didn’t speak at all. Plus, the way before then of violence and abuse, and the since then of other extended family relationship ups and downs.

Both the Mama and I have the loving memories of big family gatherings during the end-of-year holidays and multiple times throughout the year (even daily when we lived near each other). But then, family fell away and moved away, new family was added and old family taken away. Maybe we see each other a few times per year, if that. (The women in my life have always done a much better job at keeping in touch with extended family than I have.)

Trust and empathy are vital to nurturing any relationship, as well as the reciprocal investment of communication and time. And yet over time, life happens, we fail each other, and even the seemingly best intentions can and do tear at the fine family fabric. We’re hurt. We resent. We retaliate. We cut off. The friend in family is lost. Sometimes forever.

The Mama and I have been listening to Dr. Brené Brown of late, a research professor who has spent the past two decades studying courage, vulnerability, shame and empathy. In Rising Strong as a Spiritual Practice, Brené Brown shared a conversation about forgiveness she had with a rabbi. She’d been doing research about forgiveness, and the rabbi told her that true forgiveness can only transpire when something else dies. Not literally a person or thing, but a manifestation of something, letting go of resentment for example. Literally letting it die.

This is the first year in my grateful long life to date that I've accepted I can no longer hold onto any resentment for being hurt. That I can no longer beat myself up for my own past transgressions, or that I can keep judging others because I don’t feel they’re being their best selves (because maybe they are), or because there are those who I don’t see eye to eye with (because sometimes we don’t). I just can’t do it anymore. I've really needed to let those things die. It doesn’t serve a work-in-progress healthy heart and spirit at all, and it doesn’t help me to be a better parent or husband or human. There are so many more benefits to channeling my energy into me being my better self and sharing that with others. God knows it's taken long enough to get here.

That doesn’t mean there aren’t boundaries on how I handle any relationship going forward post whatever traumatic event, and what I want our children to understand about betrayal, heartbreak, personal responsibility and forgiveness. Forgiveness is a feral animal, one that is unpredictable and not easy to tame, even when you feel like it’s ready to give itself up to you, and for you. And forgiveness doesn’t mean that all what ailed a relationship makes the relationship whole again. It just means all what ailed it is finally dead.

Trust and empathy take time to build and rebuild, and a lot of continuous reciprocity to sustain, but without forgiveness, there can be no friend in family.

Our Future Depends on Us All

"Stand up straight and realize who you are, that you tower over your circumstances." --Maya Angelou

Then comes the part where a cool morning summer stroll becomes a little magical, and the faux columns I see transform into real ones; I imagine I'm among Roman ruins at sunrise.

Really, I did. Just for a moment I immerse myself in antiquity while hundreds of years of history rise and fall inside me. Of countries conquering and collaborating. Of generations of families, friends and enemies living and dying, loving and warring. Of leaders leading progress and those leaving a destructive wake. (At least the parts I remembered from school and the time the Mama and I were actually there years ago.)

Of course we were nowhere near Rome. We were in Folsom, California, the morning after a fun weekend visiting family and friends, our girls getting time with those good folk we don't see very often.     

          

And I love Folsom. And El Dorado Hills. And Lake Tahoe. And Sacramento. And of course Santa Cruz. And every single city and destination I've ever been in throughout America. Hiking through the Southwest in the spring. Walking through Central Park on a muggy summer day (and now swimming under a waterfall on the lovely island of Maui). Strolling through the Blue Ridge mountains in the fall. Celebrating the holidays and Christmastime in Anaheim at Disneyland (we are not snow people).

From sea to shining sea.

But not just in America. I also love every place around the world I've ever been fortunate enough to visit, especially the travels I've had with the Mama. To witness the wonders of the world as well as the harsh realities of poverty and civil unrest.

Shortly after 9/11, the Mama and I went traveling abroad, counterintuitive to what many Americans were doing at the time. We stopped by a deli in Venice to get some lunch and the man behind the counter, who didn't no much if any English, smiled and asked:

"Americans?"

We said yes, and then he added:

"God Bless America."

Then later on that very same trip we found ourselves in the midst of an anti-American rally. Swallowed up by an angry but thankfully peaceful mob while pickpockets poked at our jackets and belt lines.

I know it's a tired cliché comparing America with the rise and fall of any empire of old (think Brexit now). I really do. Even with all the policitical and socioeconomic divisive complexity, this is still a great nation, this United States of America. The Mama and I are proud and engaged citizens and we're raising our girls to be the same. This isn't a nation that's lost its greatness, it's still an important bastion of democracy in this ever-erratic polarized and populist world. But it is a nation like much of the modern world that sorely lacks in great leadership, effectual leadership.

Personal leadership in particular. We can blame all our woes on terrorists and Wall Street and Congress and even the President of the United States (and we did with Presidents Bush and Obama, depending on what side of the fence we hemmed and hawed on). We can blame two presidential candidates with the highest disapproval ratings ever in the history of this country. But for me it all starts at the "home office," no matter the circumstance or the status.

I am not you and you are not me and I yet will still celebrate all our differences, even the little crazy ones. Those of you with the big crazy however, God help you, because I cannot, even with the separation of church and state. I can empathize with those of us who are willing to stay informed about the state of their world -- from local to global -- and who are willing to take action that builds up and not tears down. I'm not asking everyone to be a Rhodes Scholar, or to forgo keeping the "bad guys and girls" in check. I'm just requesting that we stay informed as objectively as possible and make informed decisions, which can be a challenge I know. (Fact-checking detectives by nature we are not.)

It still starts with us. We may be oppressed and disenfranchised -- we may feel like puppets of the 1 percent -- and yet we can still rise above and make a difference for our friends and family, our neighbors down the street and across this great country. I know we can. We can strive for autonomy from the 50/50 split and move to at least the 60/40 compromise, creating the incremental improvements that truly are the catalysts of positive change and progress. To improve our individual and collective circumstance.

Which is why I'm declaring independence from ignorance and intolerance. Really, I am. This nation's future is inextricably linked to the future of the rest of the world. It cannot be uncoupled without detrimental economic and diplomatic consequence. And cutting off the world won't stop the gun-toting crazy.

Stand up straight and keep democracy alive. Stand up and lead. We are an American citizens. We are a global citizens. And our children are as well. Our future depends on us all.

The Haters of Happy Should Never Be Second Best

“Toco the Toucan, he had a bad day
How the other birds teased him
When he hopped at fly play.”

—Kevin Grossman & Jerry Tanner, You Can Do What A Toucan Can Do Too!

I didn't expect to feel this way. To get emotional reading my own children's book to my daughter's first grade class. I'm a self-proclaimed crier, yes, but it was just supposed to be fun. To participate in the class "mystery reader" program where, leading up to my designated time to read, daily clues were presented to the kids to see if they could figure out who the reader would be.

And this time, it be me. Beatrice had no idea, even after I was the one who brought her to school that morning of my reading. I waited in the school office and then two of her classmates came to get me and escort me back to the classroom.

Beatrice beamed when she saw me. Some of her classmates recognized me since I had coached them in T-ball and soccer, whispering, "I knew it was Beatrice's dad." I sat down in the rocking chair the teacher uses for guests and reading and said good morning.

Over 20 six and seven-year-olds from various backgrounds, ethnicities and cultures gazed back at me with curious smiles. This budding microcosm of the greater world around us, at least of the California Bay Area, filled me with hope that positive living without the haters of happy may just prevail someday.

Aspirational I know. Always the hopeful hoper I am. But at some point, if not already, these kids will tease and be teased because of misunderstood yet reconcilable differences. That unconditional rite of passage that so many of us experience. And not only teased, since there will be those who bully and get bullied, especially in world that gleans joy from online anonymity and trashing others. Haters gonna hate and all that crap.

One of my favorite podcasts is called Reply All from Gimlet Media, and last year they did a couple of episodes about Yik Yak, the application that allows users to communicate anonymously with anyone within a 10-mile radius. The episodes revealed how Yik Yak was/is being used to target students at universities with some pretty horrific racism. Haters gonna hate and all that death threat crap.

The Internet tagline Yik Yak uses is "Yik Yak makes the world feel small again by giving you a feed of all the casual, relatable, heartfelt and silly things people are saying around you." Contradictory to how many wield their anonymous trashing power, but these kinds of applications and platforms, including the big Facebook, will tell you their just the vessel and delivery mechanism. They say they encourage positive communication and that they will shut down inappropriate and dangerous posts and discussion threads.

It doesn't always happen unless there's a lot of public and media attention around horrific bullying that occurs online (and off), and sadly it sometimes takes the victim's demise to course correct. But in all fairness to social media platforms, of which I'm a really big consumer, they can be used to share and spread positive messages by people who do reveal themselves and don't hide in the cowardly shadows.

One of my Facebook friends posted recently (and sarcastically):

I have started and stopped, written and erased, about 10 posts this morning. All of them brilliant. Take my word for it.

But I'm just not willing and able to put up with the inevitable backlash, trolling and counter-arguments.

The Facebook won.

Right on, Brother. And we're all supposed to be the personally responsible adults who don't troll and hate. Right?

Thankfully Kidpower, the global nonprofit leader in personal safety and violence prevention education that the Mama works for, offers eight important skills on how to face bullying with confidence.

Skill #2, which is all about "leaving in a powerful, positive way," recommends that the best self-defense tactic is called "target denial." In other words, "don’t be there." Or as I like to call it -- change the channel, kids. Turn the channel and don't give "them" any more power than they already have. I do it all the time, especially online. This doesn't mean I wouldn't face an oppressor and stand up for myself, and there are many options and flavors of defensive responses including physical self-defense if ever needed.

Of course I didn't think about all these things while reading my book to Bea's class, but the emotion welled up when I read the line:

Although I can’t fly like all of the rest
I believe in myself
I’m not second best.

I really believed that when I wrote it, which was a couple of years before we had the girls. I believed it growing up, through all the family dysfunction and violence, and I still believe it today. As I read the story aloud, holding the book up with my left hand so the kids could see the pages, my peripheral vision embraced the new hope in front of me that someday would know the difference between hate and empathy and positive dissension, and could help to counter incivility, bullying and violence.

Good God, I'm surprised I don't have more haters of happy with the positive approach to life I not only write about, but try to live as well, as much as I can. I know how to change their channel, or to confront when need be. The incremental mindfulness and meditation I've been investing in is certainly paying off. Amen to that. Plus, the Mama channeling Kidpower continues to remind me that, no matter how horrible they can be, even the haters of happy should never be second best.

The Heck of Awesome

Adjective or Noun.

1. An expression recently used by the B-hive that interjectionally expresses glee about something very cool.
2. Akin to "right on," an 1970's expression Daddy reprised years ago when he's digging cool stuff.
3. An exclamation of encouragement, support, or enthusiastic agreement.

When Bryce spoke the magical words, we laughed. Later, the Mama and I asked each other, "Where did she get that?"

And then I thought, That's catch-phrase gold. I even did a Google search on it -- nothing came up that matched it.

We'd been reading bedtime stories with the girls and they both got really excited about putting play glasses on a dog named Arlo (from the book Arlo Needs Glasses by Barney Salzburg). 

First, Beatrice pointed to the dog visiting the eye doctor and said, "What the heck?"

Then, Bryce pointed to the page full of play glasses to try on and said, "It's the heck of awesome!"

The heck of awesome. Right on. That's exactly how I felt after she said it; exactly how I try to feel nearly everyday with #BhivePower. No matter the stresses of the day, no matter how Daddy Goat Gruff grumpy I may get, no matter what's happened in my life, or what may happen -- there's always the heck of awesome. 

Always.

The Mama and I are all about becoming the awesomer part of ourselves -- two scrappy halves that make up two wholes -- now proud parents proudly displaying all the figurative scars of earned failures and wins it took to get here (and still takes as a work in progress).

We've been together 18 wonderful years, but now that I've hit the half-century mark, that proverbial ceiling of time encroaches on me quickly as if I'm an aged Alice filling a house after drinking the wrong potion. Except I won't get small again no matter what I do, so I either learn to live in every nook and cranny as responsibly and comfortably as possible with my arms and legs hanging out the windows and the doors for as long as I can, or I don't. Of course we prefer the former and work hard on instilling that in the girls for their eventual house filling long run as well.

I'm blessed and I'm grateful. And while I've always joked about drowning in a sea of estrogen, the real truth is it makes me a better man and father. That's why it's all the sweeter when my girls afford me the occasional catch phrase and a daddy manhood rite of passage.

When the Mama and I were married, one of our wedding gifts was a George Foreman electric grill barbecue. I know, I know. For those of you keeping score at home, it's not really a barbecue when you plug it in to an electric outlet. However, we did use it over the years, and it certainly came in handy when the Mama was pregnant with Bryce and would've ripped my arms from their sockets if I would've cooked bacon or any kind of meat in the house.

My dad was a master barbecuer back in the day, but the golden grill spatula was never bestowed on me, and in recent years the Foreman grill usage has definitely dropped off.

That all changed on my birthday when the girls bought me a whole lotta awesome in a super-duper propane barbecue. It only took 50 years, but now my daddy manhood is complete. Somewhere in heaven my dad just shed a tear.

Amen.

Thank you for always being the heck of awesome, Girls. Right on. 

The Part When Freedom Rings

“Alternating currents force a show of hands
Rational responses force a change of plans
Anything can happen…”

—Neil Peart (now an American Citizen, by the way)

The girls listened as we explained why we celebrate the 4th of July.

"Do you know what country we live in?" I asked.

"Santa Cruz," Beatrice answered.

"No, that's the city we live in. The country we live in is --"

"California!"

Not surprising coming from young kids who experience the literal "now" and frame their responses accordingly. Even with the traveling we've done to date, the answer a few weeks ago would've been New York.

We went on to give then a very brief, high-level overview of the United States of America, sans the Revolutionary War for now, but including the fact that it's 239 years old and July 4 is its birthday.

"Is that as old as the world?"

"No, the world is billions of years old."

"Wow," Bea said, not really getting the span of geological time. Bryce had already moved on to something else.

Beatrice will start 1st grade this year and soon will begin the standardized learning of American history and beyond. Thankfully they're both still too young to fully experience the institutionalized crazy American politics has become (and actually always has been), but they are old enough to have experienced community generosity here at home and elsewhere. They've met many decent Americans from diverse backgrounds who are personally responsible citizens. No matter how viscerally frayed, thankfully the fringe on either end doesn't affect the B-hive.

At least, not yet. For the Mama and I, we revel in the fact that we live in a country where we can still "turn the channel" from detrimental viewpoints and content (in our opinion). And we can freely share our own beliefs in live and virtual forums where others can nod in agreement, responsibly disagree, or turn the channel as well. This and voting can be important catalysts for change, although economists argue that our individual votes don't really make a difference, so why do we vote, but individually the aggregate can make for very powerful and inspiring motivation.

We also pride ourselves in staying informed as much as possible, reading reputable "in the middle and a little to the left" mostly objective media outlets and listening to and/or watching the like (for me, that's NPR, hands down), and not simply overreacting when misinformation floods the social channels as it so often does (and I've gotten swept away in more than once).

Being an informed citizen free to agree or disagree, and/or participate or not in the divisive social and political rhetoric, but always participating in the betterment of society through responsible personal leadership, family, community and country and of course inspired action -- that's the part we want to live everyday.

The part when freedom rings and the independence and individuality empowers the rights of others who feel the same. The part we'll continue to celebrate and instill in our girls while negating hate, prejudice and oppression. The part when we acknowledge equality, regardless of sexual preference.

And then there's the reality that, while they may not be able be able to be whatever they want when they grow up, we do still live in a country where opportunity aspires to these ends and there's resiliency in that American economic magic.

Heck, there still may be gold in them thar hills...

Please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today

I went along with it. At first I said no, but he convinced me otherwise. He said it was a game she'd want to play, that she would think it was fun. That girls liked to play these games.

I was six. He was seven or eight, a neighborhood kid, a friend of sorts, one who led and I was a follower. She was only four and still in diapers, or some early iteration of pull-ups (the year was 1971).

I felt uncomfortable. It was late August making everything hot and sweaty. I knew it was wrong, but I remember not knowing what to do about it other than go along.

We didn't touch her or hurt her. The other boy, my sort-of friend, told her to pull her diaper down. She looked scared. I looked away. She pulled it down, he laughed and I stared.

My mom had watched the whole thing from our dining room window and immediately came outside, made us apologize to the little girl. My friend fled, the girl ran away crying (I don't remember if she talked with the parents of the girl or not, but nothing ever came of it).

She then took me inside and began to explain to me the differences between boys and girls, what a vagina was and what a penis was and why it was so wrong to do what we did. And why when I was older, I needed to respect women and never force anything upon them, never hurt them or belittle them in any way.

This coming from a woman who experience years and years of physical and emotional abuse, of which I had witnessed, who desperately wanted to instill in her son the self-awareness of knowing the difference between mutually respectful personal responsibility and the utter human failure of perpetrating intimate partner violence and blaming the victims of abuse.

Young men and boys need this education today more than ever. According to a recent article I read in Ebony online titled Stop Telling Women How to Not Get Raped:

"Telling women that they can behave in a certain way to avoid rape creates a false sense of security and it isn’t the most effective way to lower the horrible statistics which show that 1 in 5 women will become victims of a completed or attempted rape in their lifetime.  The numbers for African American women are even higher at nearly 1 in 4."

For those of us who have little girls, please educate your little boys (and girls) for the better today.

Because we grow up and innocence is so fragile and fleeting.

I have faith and Jedi mind tricks: this isn't the failure that's looking for you.

REGRETS. Those were the droids you were looking for.

This poster made me laugh all week. And think. And reflect. And laugh some more.

Anyone who understands the Star Wars mythos gets the reference. Even if you don't, nobody likes to have any regrets.

Fact is, it's too easy for some folk to say you shouldn't live with regret and that failure is not an option.

But we do and it is.

The difference is in what we learn from regret and failure, and how we learn to reconcile and elevate to give it another go, while being personally and socially responsible.

The challenge to do this becomes more magnified when you have children.

It was easier when Mama and me decided to get out of Dodge and jump the pond to Europe after the dot.com bust back in 2001. There were those who said we were crazy and why wasn't I looking for a new job when the company I worked for had failed.

But me and Mama had no regrets to take the severance and run.

When we returned I freelanced and consulted and we scraped by within a much tighter means until that all dried up.

For us there were truly no regrets and we rebounded and rebuilt from failure with blissful fluidity and fun (you should've seen me before Mama -- a tragically destructive hot mess I was).

What a difference a decade makes when you have wonderful wife, two beautiful daughters (one still not out of the oven), a water-logged mortgage, and a risky new venture that could be the rest of my life's fortune (and not all for money honey either) in a still abysmal economic environment.

"It's easy to make a buck. It's a lot tougher to make a difference." ~ Tom Brokaw

You said it, mister, but a difference doesn't pay the bills. I need to do both. Fatherhood comes at a price, whereas I do not count the cost as long as love remains (thank you, Neil).

I have faith and Jedi mind tricks: this isn't the failure that's looking for you.

The fallacy that God never speaks

The Road by Cormac McCarthy had such a profound effect on me; it is one of my favorite novels of all time.

No tiny feat considering that we were only on the unconscious cusp of wanting children when we listened to the audio book during our Southwest trip in May 2007.

It was one of those defining moments that filled our hearts with loving choice.

Over and over again the book's theme of parental love and protection against dismal nuclear devastation and end-of-the-world odds was punctuated by beautiful passages of prose.

Yep, I really liked it.

However, we knew it was going to be tough to watch the movie version of The Road.

And 15 minutes in, Mama said to stop. It was just too much now that we have children.

The scene was the father tenderly washing his son's head in a stream after a violent encounter with one of the bad folk roaming the desolate earth.

That was it. We turned it off.

But earlier than that there was a line I can and will never, ever forget:

The child is my warrant, and if he is not the Word of God, then God never spoke.

There are places in the world today just as post-apocalyptic as that of The Road, with fathers, mothers and children dying at the hands of their relentless enemies.

That of us. Sometimes for a dollar. Sometimes for sport. Sometimes for survival.

Sometimes we just come up short.

I don't subscribe to supercilious dogma and I'm not a praying man, but I don't believe in the fallacy that God never speaks.

My faith comes from the fallout of loving words that drift slowly to the floor and coalesce into pools of hope.

Amen. I will protect that faith with my life.

Be better people. Be better parents. Take the lead.

We can be passionate sans the violence, kids. Personal leadership starts at home in the mirror.

In 1999 I was on a business trip in Paris. Seriously. I remember the morning before we left for Barcelona, the second leg of the business trip (seriously), I looked out my hotel room window and five floors below I witnessed an unsettling scene.

A man and a woman were arguing. They stood on the sidewalk, hands and arms gesticulating, and I caught bits and pieces of shrill French swirling in the air around me like hot ash.

The man grabbed the woman's arm and shook her. She wrenched herself free and got in a small white car.

The man continued yelling at her through the closed car window. I expected her to peel out and away from the curb, but she didn't. He kept yelling.

And then he kicked the side of the door. Full force.

And he kicked it again.

And again.

And then he broke the window.

That's when the thought finally slapped my mind across its face that I should do something:

A) Call the police.
B) Call the lobby to call the police.
C) Go downstairs and help her.

I looked up in this split-second decision-making haze, and when I Iooked down again, the car and the man were gone.

The one other thing I noticed during this violent exchange was the fact that no one stopped, no one paid any attention.

Mercy me. There's the cultural cliché that Parisians and other romantic language folk are passionate to the point of the rational breaking down and physical restraint becoming mired in emotional reactivity.

But no one even paid attention.

According to the Family Violence Prevention Fund site:

The United Nations Development Fund for Women estimates that at least one of every three women globally will be beaten, raped or otherwise abused during her lifetime. In most cases, the abuser is a member of her own family.

And then closer to home:

Nearly one in four women in the United States reports experiencing violence by a current or former spouse or boyfriend at some point in her life.

Two of those four could be my daughters someday, but not without me raising Cain along the way.

We can be passionate sans the violence, kids. Personal leadership starts at home in the mirror.

If you're interested, you can read a post I did at the TalentCulture titled Taking A Look Into The Leadership Mirror:

Oh, vanity.

We look in the mirror and just want to look great. Looking great makes us feel great and ready to face the world.

But as we linger over our reflection a little longer, we begin to notice blemishes, scars, discolorations, imperfections of the tiniest kind that initially only we can see.

That perception of our own imperfect reflection bleeds inward; what kind of a person are we? What kind of a husband, wife, family, friend, employee, manager, business owner, or CEO are we? What is our state of being?

We try. We fail. We learn. Or we don’t.

Linger long enough in front of that mirror and you ask yourself: How responsible am I today for me and my role in today’s highly integrated personal and professional miasmic universe?

Hopefully the answer is “very responsible.” We are leaders of self first, and there can be no in-between or settling for marginal personal responsibility, imperfections and all...

Read more here.

All kept in a lockbox in the dark shadows of our hearts.

We carry a sensitive cargo
Below the waterline --
Ticking like a time bomb
With a primitive design

--Neil Peart

I can't get it out of my head. His irrational rationale for brutally violent acts, the taking of two young lives, two lovely daughters.

"I was aware of what I was doing, and I could not stop myself. I was in a major rage and pissed off at my whole life and everyone who had hurt me and hurt the wrong people."

He's a deranged animal.

However, I've had these feelings. Raging against the world around me (in my head) because of imagined or real harm done to me by others.

Wait, don't judge. Many of us have had these feelings, although many of us don't want to admit it because it reveals potentially fatal flaws in our societal and moral navigation systems, the fact that we get angry and need to purge at any cost, regardless of attempted self-restraint or criminal laws.

But for me, the anger is always directed at the object considered to be the tipping point, the person responsible for hurting me, for making me so mad.

Not at random strangers. And never actually acting on the violent vengeful visions.

They are privately cathartic and necessary for sane functioning, for working through the painful angst. All kept in a lockbox in the dark shadows of our hearts.

But in the case of Gardner, the lockbox failed. And as a father of one daughter with one an the way, my vigilance is exponential.

John Albert Gardner III pleaded guilty April 16 to murdering 17-year-old Chelsea King and 14-year-old Amber Dubois in a deal with prosecutors that spared him the death penalty. He is scheduled to be sentenced May 14 to life in prison without parole.

"You think that I don't have guilt and I don't hate myself for what I did? I hate myself, I really do. There is no taking back what I did and if I could, yes, I would. Are you kidding me? But I was out of control. If I was able to stop myself in the middle of it, I would have, and I could not. I was out of control."

"It wasn't about their age with me. I actually didn't go out and look for them. I did not sit and wait for them. … Everything that I've done was horrible. What am I supposed to say? That I tried to prevent it? Yeah I did."

Gardner claims he went to a mental hospital to turn himself in, but they turned him away.

I don't know the context of why they turned him away, and if it's even true, but in a state (California) where health and human services have been slashed and burned for decades, while in their stead prison after prison has been built, I'm not so sure we're helping anyone help themselves anymore.

We're to keep them under lock and key, but by then it's too late; blue genes, broken dreams and the devastating memories of stepping in one self-made rusted bear trap after another drive the seething madness to lockbox breaking.

What's my point? Responsible parenting means paying particular attention to the way your children respond to stressful situations and get them help if need be. (And there can be no action in inaction if as parents we don't help ourselves when responding inappropriately to stressful situations.)

We are the leaders of self first, then our families.

I had a good friend in high school who used to inflict pain on himself and on his pets. Years later, after time in prison and severe drug and alcohol abuse, he was diagnosed bipolar. Thankfully he never hurt others including his children, but sadly he did end up taking his own life.

If there's a need for intervention, counseling, psychiatry, God, medication -- whatever -- then the first line of offense and defense is us, the parents.

We love our children, and want to protect them at any cost, but we must work to help them keep their lockboxes intact.

Because once opened, it's under another lock and key they're headed to, and we're no longer responsible.

But the greater society is.

Behind the finer feelings --
This civilized veneer --
The heart of a lonely hunter
Guards a dangerous frontier

The balance can sometimes fail --
Strong emotions can tip the scale --

Don't want to silence a desperate voice
For the sake of security
No one wants to make a terrible choice
On the price of being free

It's not a matter of mercy
It's not a matter of laws
Plenty of people will kill you for some fanatical cause

It's not a matter of conscience --
A search for probable cause
It's just a matter of instinct -- a matter of fatal flaws

No reward for resistance
No assistance -- no applause

I don't want to face the killer instinct -- face it in you or me
So we keep it under lock and key...

The monster at the end of this book, this house, this block and that IP address...

One of Bea's favorite upstairs books is The Monster at the End of This Book: Starring Lovable, Furry Old Grover.

I say upstairs because it's one of many favorite books we read to her in her bedroom, and then there's a whole other set of favorites downstairs in the living room, Bea's play room, which is what the living room has become (hey, we're fully prepped for Bryce -- bring him/her on).

In the story, Grover begs and pleads with the reader to not read to the end of the book because there's a horrible monster there. In fact, he does everything he can to thwart the reader, including tying pages together and building brick walls, all in hopes of stopping us from reaching the monster.

Who is Grover himself.

Grover jokes nervously that he knew the monster wouldn't be scary, but we get the fact that we can be scared of our own shadow, the mysterious other self of the unknown that is known.

***

Bea woke up yesterday morning a couple of times crying and cold. Sometimes she loses her blanket somewhere in the night and hasn't figured out how to pull it back on herself. Plus, her teeth are still coming in and bothering her.

Usually Mama gets up to console her, to tuck her in again. Sometimes she has to pull Bea in the big bed that's on the other side of the room from her crib and lay with her for a bit. Mama's always a loving comfort that way.

But yesterday morning I gave Mama a break and brought the baby monitor downstairs. When Bea started crying I went up to console her. I bent over the front of the crib, rubbed her arms softly and told her how much I loved her. I told her it wasn't time to get up yet and to go back to sleep.

She held and stroked "fuzzy" (her blanket), sucked her thumb and went back to sleep.

***

Jarred Harrell lived down the street from Somer Thompson.

***

When I was 10 and my sister 8, there was a monster who lived with our mother at the end of the house.

He was mentally ill and abusive to us all.

We had no idea at first. It totaled almost three years too long, but we got out intact.

But not unscathed.

***

The growing incivility of our children to others and acts of bullying, cyber-bullying and Internet trolling are reprehensible.

***

Last night I waited patiently with hand on Mama's belly, longing to feel Bryce move. It's still a little early for me to be able to feel, but Mama can already feel the movement -- the flipping, the flopping, the kicking and the hiccups.

It was at 21 weeks when I first felt Beatrice, so we're getting close to that window with Bryce.

***

The monster at the end of this book, this house, this block and that IP address...is us.

The difference between the real monsters and Grover is us.

God empowers the difference, but it's still up to us.

Those of us with sound hearts and minds can intervene, prevent and protect. Those of us without, cannot, and must be protected against.

***

April is National Child Abuse Prevention Month.

***

Mama and I love you Beatrice and Bryce.

We are the Six Sigma initiative to reduce global human defect.

Yesterday afternoon a car stalled in the road in front of me. A young girl waved us all ahead since she knew she was stuck; they wove around her like fire ants shaking their heads in disgust.

I pulled over and with the help of another passerby, we pushed her to the side of the rode.

"Do you have a phone?" I asked her.

"Yes."

"Do you have someone to call?"

"Yes, I'm calling my friend now. Thank you for your help."

Her smile was genuine relief and gratitude.

It could've been Beatrice. I only hope someone will be there to help her someday.

Cars are expendable. Our children are not.

Fall back to Saturday morning. As we sat watching Good Morning America's weekend edition, a story came on about text rage and the teenager with steel-toed boots with almost killed 8th grader Josie Lou Ratley.

The GMA report said teenage violence was on the decline, but I found other sources that say otherwise.

For example:

• An average of 15 young people are killed each day in the U.S., and over 80 percent of those are killed with guns.
• In 2004, 750,000 young people were treated in hospitals for violence-related injuries.
• One third of high school students reported being involved a fight at school in 2004, and 17 percent reported bringing a weapon to school in the month preceding the 2004 survey.
• 1 in 12 teens in high school are injured or threatened with a weapon each year.
• 30 percent of junior and senior high school students are involved in bullying each year as the victim, bully, or both.
• According to a report by the U.S. Secret Service, in the previous decade, the odds of a high school student being injured or threatened with a weapon were about 1 in 14, and the odds of a teen being in a physical fight were 1 in 7.

Then in the adult world on Sunday, just hours before the historic healthcare legislation passing, it was disturbing to see the democratic senators spit on and called derogatory names.

The hate was palatable.

I understand the internal heat shields slip sometimes and we can be reactively caustic when disagreeing or when wronged, but we're still responsible for how we respond and any carnage we leave.

And for the wildfires we feed.

Fear, uncertainty and misinformation are tantamount today, but we can cope and help each other through it, regardless if we agree on "it" or not. We can elevate without fueling hate, anger and violence -- and we can and should start with our babies and children -- globally and cross-culturally.

If there's a problem beyond rational responsive control, like a physical or mental disability or criminal activity, then those of us who are capable of restraint are responsible.

Yes, we are, whether it be in the forms of counseling, education, medication, incarceration, rehabilitation or institutionalization.

We are the Six Sigma initiative to reduce global human defect. Not God nor the media nor celebrities nor politicians nor captains of industry.

As parents, we can make the next generational difference. We have to.

The pain unimaginable is real, and it needs to end.

There is pain unimaginable beyond the bubble of family stability and personal responsibility, caring cultures and community. Pain I don't want anywhere me or my family or anyone I know and love.

It's dark and violent and unrelenting and worldwide -- and it's mostly against women and children.

And mostly by men.

I charged myself to raise awareness and to take action to help prevent intimate partner violence (domestic violence) and child abuse. I grew up with it and don't want others to have to.

Men and women alike can and should work together to break the cycle.

Of violence against women.

I found The Pixel Project recently on Twitter and am so glad I did (they're on Facebook as well). The Project Founder and Lead, Regina Yau, tells the story of why she founded the organization and it's a powerful read.

Both sides also need to realise that it’s not just a “women’s issue” – it is EVERYBODY’S issue.

Men and women alike. Fathers and mothers alike. Brothers and sister alike. Friends and neighbors alike. Everybody.

There's a great resource center for men on the site called The Men's Room.

The Pixel Project believes that as men are a major part of the problem, so they are a part of the solution to ending violence against women.

We believe that as a man, you can make a difference and that you have already taken the first step by showing an interest in and support for The Pixel Project.

Amen, sister.

According to The Pixel Project site:

Violence Against Women, at its core, is about subjugating women. It is the domination of a woman by another human being. One in three women have been abused or subjected to gender-based violence in their lives.

Here are some hard facts:

• The most common persistent act of Violence Against Women is violence by an intimate partner, aka domestic violence. In a 10-year study conducted by the WHO (World Health Organisation), between 15% to 75% of women report physical and/or sexual violence by a husband or partner. Marital rape, a common aspect of domestic violence, is often not seen as a criminal offence, but a domestic dispute, something that could lead to a woman’s death.
• 5,000 women die each year in the dubious name of honour. Most times they are killed to protect the “honour” of the men who abused them. These women were raped, molested, or impregnated against their will. They were then subsequently murdered in cold blood. Some girls were guilty of simply being girls. They too, were murdered because their fathers and uncles thought they needed to be taught a lesson.
• Women and girls are still being forced into marriages against their will, particularly in Asia, the Middle East and sub-Saharan Africa. Many of these women are seen as being merely chattels and are discouraged (sometimes violently) from pursuing their education.
• Worldwide, up to 1 in 5 women report being sexually abused as children. These children are more vulnerable to other forms of abuse in their lives compared to most.

It's almost unfathomable to me to comprehend these facts, especially now that I have a daughter and another child on the way.

Almost unfathomable, but because I remember what happened to my mother and my family when I was a little boy, the pain unimaginable is real, and it needs to end.

Family Vacashun Lessons: We've all had them. We all need more LAMEness.

When developing ourselves as leaders -- both as parents and captains of industry -- unfortunately there are learning moments we miss like peripheral wisps of smoke.

And then came Wednesday, January 20, 2010 at 10:47 a.m.

That's when I first wrote about awakening to a recent work failure and hopefully learning from it -- weeks of meticulous planning, promotion and preaching a new way to deliver on behalf of a client, and then poof -- technical failure and poor contingency planning that called for an immediate decision.

Kill the project or forge ahead -- a split-second decision that has to be made, for better or for worse. A semi-rational decision that's emotionally driven made from the "gut" because of the situational duress (I'm reading How We Decide by Jonah Lehrer, fascinating book).

Decision made. Consequences dealt with. But was I really listening for the ill-prepared warning signs that were there?

At this point I'm convinced I wasn't. Hubris had any insight of failure licked.

But my learning didn't end there. Oh no, my Martian family vacashun this week has proven to be a big blip on the stumble-bumble daddiness radar. For all my chatter about listening and mindful presence, this wasn't a banner week for me.

We can't learn without making mistakes -- every failure is needed to foster learning and triumphant successes.

I say needed because I'm a big believer in the fact that, without it -- failure -- as parents (and leaders in other capacities) we'd never develop the capacity to:

L - Listen and Learn
A - Adapt for Adeptness
M - Modify your Melody
E - Exercise to Elevate

You know, the LAME moments of leadership development for parents and professional folk working towards personal responsibility.

We've all had them. We all need more LAMEness.

The bigger the fail the bigger the lesson -- especially when you're paying attention.

Paying attention is so important. Like the brief Libran horoscope that popped up on the TV monitor in Subway while we waited for sandwiches:

You're viewing with a magnifying glass when you should be using a microscope.

Allowing myself to be sidetracked by work issues and social media, it took half a week of vacation to acclimate to family focus.

And then there was the great article I found on Facebook yesterday (of course) by Rachel Dretzin at PBS Parents titled Asking Questions is the Key to Parenting in the Digital Age.

Definitely a broader topic for a future GOTG post, but the sentence that stuck me upside the head (but really wasn't surprising) was:

I'm much more concerned about all of our dwindling capacity to pay attention.

Wait, what?

Sigh.

Thank God I have such a loving (forgiving) wife and daughter.

And for those of you keeping score at home, we had lots of fun while daddy learned to listen!

Wait, what?

Martian Family Vacashun: I blame the dope. Let it try to load the damn car.

Man, am I learning valuable daddy lessons on this Martian family vacashun.

"Hey you, lift the heavy stuff and yes, it's your fault."

Sigh.

Here's another one -- when you decide to share a family vacation bed with your 16-month-old, be prepared for the kickboxing bedroll boogie and the toddler-WWF head-scissor lock. Also, since Mama's pregnant, the new baby keeps us all her in a hormonal head-scissor lock.

Yes, it's my fault. I'll load the car.

Don't get me wrong -- we had a psychotically different great time visiting Mama's family in Yuma before arriving back in San Diego today for tons of animal kingdom fun, and Nonna (mother-in-law) has been an invaluable travel companion -- it's just that this daddy feels like an infant, even acting like one.

The work cord regenerates and reconnects like a James Cameron special effect and simultaneously dumbs down my already stumble-bumble daddiness.

What the hell? I'm really not this useless, especially when my hand is right in front of my face.

Right?

Front of my face. Hand. Face. Wait, what?

It's not that I'd rather be channeling Kerouac like in the old days when me and Mama traveled the world together (although it was coolsville, Daddy-O), it's just that I need to better practice what I preach -- mindful presence of family when with family.

Work is hell. Or was that war? Family is fun. Or was that the red wine in Rome? Anyway, the fact is the trenches will be there when you return -- I'm talking about work now, not family, so pay attention -- particularly when you have such a great team as I do.

Leaders develop dependable autonomous teams. Families need dependable autonomous daddies.

Don't fail to learn. Learn from failing. That's what well-regulated dopamine production is supposed to help you do.

I blame the dope. Let it try to load the damn car.

To be better.

It's early. I'm working downstairs. Bea whimpers and moans upstairs, most likely her covers are strewn about; she doesn't get pulling them back on yet. Mama gets up to get her, to pull her into our bed and go back to sleep.

My parents are sleeping in our new garage guest room. They'll be heading out today after spending over a week with us for Christmas, of which my sister and kids actually joined us for, even if it was only for a few hours on Christmas day. Never thought it would happen anytime soon.

And it was only two years ago this morning that the pregnancy test was positive.

Never say never when raising the ever-amazing and tasty bittersweet life-sicle-cycle high above the head. This is why, per my favorite writer, I identify with being a rational romantic mystic cynical idealist.

Cynicism wanes this time of year for me, though. It's always been my favorite time of the year; I really do strive to find and live the essence of Christmas and New Year's each and everyday. Everyday is Christmas when you're your own personal Santa and Savior. Everyday is New Year's Day when you own your actions and reactions.

I'm so thankful that Mama, Bea and me are healthy, ready to take on 20-10 with the zest and zeal of nearly 7 billion New Year's Eve revelers, our hearts as big and bold as balls of fiery crystal falling fast to ignite the center of the earth.

But yesterday a dear old friend of mine shared that her daughter now has hearing loss in both ears and will have to wear hearing aids, and the doctors think it's progressive. As she put it, "For someone that followed all the rules for a healthy pregnancy and goes organic much of the time, the new reality took a little time to adjust to."

Anger at the universe, grief and sadness. Then she said:

"She is my little hero...I want to promote a can-do, positive attitude and be her role model. So, onward we go for a new road in 2010."

Because that's a choice, and one that reminds me of why we've evolved, of why we're here. We shake our heads at the tragic alternatives that play out around us, but we can elevate and rise above.

Our children are our heroes and we are theirs.

God empowers us; we empower God.

To be better.

Happy New Year my dear friends and family. Be better.

Because it's for our children, the malleable essence of us.

I'm going to take this time to work on healing my family and be a better husband and father.

Tiger Woods was quoted as saying something to that effect recently.

Really. And it's been bugging the crap out of me ever since.

Why didn't he make the time before all this? Before the alleged affairs and his supersonic fall from grace?

We don't know for sure what specifically may or may have happened over the years in Tiger's life. Or in Mark Sanford's life. Or in John Edward's life. Or in too many others.

But we do know of their infidelities.

I know my birth father was a big womanizer when he was married to my mom, along with being an abuser.

I had my own bouts of under-the-table behavior while pretending to be the golden boy everybody loved, crashing and burning like the rest of these wretches.

We get caught. Maybe we feel pangs of guilt prior, maybe not. Maybe its the holidays that drives sentimentality to the surface.

That's the way it was with my birth father.

I'm so sorry. I'm going to stop drinking and be a better husband and father.

Merry Christmas, right? But nothing ever changed post December 25. The same behaviors resumed - the affairs, the domestic violence, the drinking.

One of my dear friends posted this quote in Facebook this morning:

"The boy who is going to make a great man must not make up his mind merely to overcome a thousand obstacles, but to win in spite of a thousand repulses and defeats."

--Theodore Roosevelt

If more fathers aspired to be better, took responsibility and made actual changes in their lives for the better - learned to trump their genes - then the thousand repulses and defeats would be worthwhile to their families, even if their marriages can't withstand it.

Because it's for our children, the malleable essence of us.

Merry Christmas Daddies. Live life like it's golden.

For fear of phantom fathers past

2:00 a.m. Saturday morning, November 28.

I woke up hot and sweaty and freaked out.

Freaked out because I night-daydream time traveled again, imagining when I'll be 61 and Beatrice will be a senior in high school, hoping I'll be physically healthy, that me and Mama will be financially sound, and that all my mental faculties will be intact.

Like Alice in Wonderland outgrowing a room, my mind pushed beyond its skull and filled our bedroom with palatable distress, thick as goo with a sickly fluorescent green glow.

Mama was in Bea's room tending to baby's teething pain. Amy's amazing. I think she wears a cape and can bend steel.

I laid in bed drenched in my own paralytic ectoplasmic fear.

Fear of whether or not I'll be here when Bea's older. Fear of whether or not I'll be a good father in the long run.

It's how I felt most of the first 12 years of my life - full of fear. Shitty fathers and abuse and neglect netted nothing in the realm of positive male role models.

I modeled some of the bad stuff for years – my 20’s were a wasteland, my early 30’s were the transformation – until I finally took ownership of myself and my actions and the results of those actions. That was phase 1. Meeting Amy was part of that.

Phase 2 was when we had Beatrice. It’s a whole different ballgame now and my personal mission is to help other men and fathers be personally responsible and elevate their behavior to self-respect, respect of others and non-violent reactions to life and loved ones.

Still doesn't stop me from freaking out. We may even have a second child. I embrace it. Still doesn't stop me from freaking out.

When I woke up like I did the other night, for fear of phantom fathers past, I was very scared.

Thank God there are millions of men breaking the cycles of violence and neglect in their families. My friend Laurie talked about this very subject this morning in her Punk Rock HR blog.

My Post-T-Day angst is normal I know. 'Tis the season for trials and tribulations that culminate in a slingshot New Year's flight into the future. Time travel is a bitch.

But I'm ready. I've never been more ready. I'm the dad I never had, and now Bea has me.

Mocha Dad shared his families' thankful box story last week and I'm making one for our family. That way we can add notes sharing why we're thankful and read them every Thanksgiving. How appropriate is it that I'm using the box that Bea's bee mobile came in. Love it!

My first entry: I'm thankful for being a good daddy.