From The Loss And The Pride

She wanted to speak, then she didn't want to, and then she did. We're so glad she did because we've never been more proud, even after the wind blew her speech from the podium to the ground. "Oh God" she said with laughter in her voice. A little well-timed (or accidental) levity always goes a long with an audience. 

I saw it all proudly and I wasn't even there. Months earlier I had scheduled a workshop event in Chicago on the same date as Bryce's 5th grade graduation, which almost didn't happen for her because of COVID-19, and it was too late to change it.

If there's one thing that coronavirus changed for the good, it's the fact that we've been virtualizing and streaming important events like graduations for family members and friends who couldn't make it otherwise. The timing for Bryce's graduation was perfect during my work event because there came a point where we broke attendees up into smaller groups with different moderators and I could take a break from moderating the entire thing. 

I had the Zoom link ready to go that Bryce's teacher had sent out. I logged on and had my AirPods in and watched most of the graduation while occasionally checking in on my workshop attendees. At one point I told them all what I was doing (so they didn't think I was simply checked out from them), and how proud I was of my daughter, and a sea of smiles washed back to me. 

Bryce was one of three students from her 5th grade class who volunteered to speak. Listening to her speech inspired me to continue to let go of the ongoing stress and worry about life. She shared how disappointing it was to get covid and miss some of the fun end-of-year events, but that no matter what, she was grateful to be back in the end for graduation to be with all her friends and her teachers. For 10 years both girls went to this elementary school, and Bryce celebrated those years in her speech, just like Beatrice does looking back fondly today. 

We're so grateful to be raising such empathic and resilient humans who are both growing up to be such inspiring leaders. Beatrice with her leadership camp this summer and Bryce with her volunteering to speak to her entire 5th grade class for graduation. I asked my wife Amy later if Bryce wrote her speech all herself, and sure enough she did. 

But throughout my workshop and watching Bryce's 5th grade graduation virtually, the tragic elementary school shooting in Uvalde, Texas, weighed heavily on my heart. Those children who were killed just the day before were looking forward to summer vacations and what life had in store beyond, just like my daughter and all her friends did. Again I told my workshop attendees about how proud I was of my daughter speaking, and at the very end asked them to take a moment of silence and think about how we can work together to prevent these tragedies. And then I cried. 

Uvalde, Buffalo, and the list goes on and on and on. 213 mass shootings so far in 2022. We have to speak up, be advocate leaders on violence prevention, and be part of the solution. I know our girls will be. And that's why I cried, from the loss and the pride. 

Coronavirus Sucks, But We Don't Have To

I was at the airport ready to fly home from a speaking engagement when my wife Amy called. She was clearly upset, which isn't common for her, and what I heard her tell me was "she can't go." I had no idea what she was talking about, until she mentioned our youngest daughter Bryce. Then it became painfully clear.

Bryce had looked forward to 5th grade science camp for weeks, something that hadn't happened for three years since the pandemic started (something her big sister had to miss because of covid). Bryce had been slightly apprehensive about going, but more excited overall to experience it with her friends. Two days before science camp, the 5th graders were tested for COVID-19, and Bryce was negative.

But the morning she went to school to join her classmates on the bus to go to camp, her and a few others tested positive. At that moment, she could no longer go to science camp. It crushed her, and then it crushed Amy who had to go pick her up, and then it crushed me.

While I waited for my plane to board, I fumed about the situation and my heart ached for Bryce. Someone in line next to me started griping about having to wear masks at another airport, while the one we were in didn't require it any longer, or the airlines. Another person joined in on the griping and then they both went on yet another personal freedom diatribe that I've become so sick of -- I just wanted to tell them to shut the fuck up. 

And then I wanted to tell them that over 1 million people in the U.S. had already died from covid or covid-related complications. I wanted to tell them that over 6 million have died globally. I wanted to tell them that millions are experiencing "long covid" with a myriad of debilitating and science-stumping respiratory symptoms. Instead, I just stared straight ahead and boarded the plane. We may all want covid to go away, but it's not going anywhere anytime soon.

I was obviously angry and sad for my daughter. All I could think about on the short flight home was the fact that I wasn't there to help them in that moment. I got there soon enough though and gave Bryce a big supportive hug and told her I loved her, that it wasn't her fault she got covid. We've been instilling resilience in both our daughters, and while Bryce was disappointed in missing science camp (and a whole other week of school, another fun event, all at the end of her 5th grade year), she dealt with it better than we thought. Better than me, that's for sure. Fortunately her symptoms were brief. 

After Bryce caught covid, I got it too, even after all this time of being double vaxxed and boosted. We all spent nearly two weeks masked and isolated from each other as much as possible. However, like most viruses, SARS-CoV-2 (which causes the infectious disease known as coronavirus or COVID-19) only wants to infect its hosts, evolve, and thrive; it doesn't care about anything or anyone else they infect or those it makes sick or kills. It doesn't care about vaccinations, or antivirals, or masks, or other healthcare safety measures put into place. It doesn't care about covid deniers or anti-mask advocates (although I'll bet it thanks them in its own surly viral way). 

It doesn't care how disruptive it's been to families and communities around the world. It doesn't care that it stopped our Bryce from going to science camp and missing another fun class event in her last year of grade school. But no matter what, we're thankfully still a resilient, mostly healthy, loving, and grateful family, so blessings for that. Coronavirus sucks, but we don't have to. 

The Bridge to Beyond

When I look back at the 10 years we've spent at our elementary school, from preschool to 5th grade for both our daughters, I'm flooded with love and pride. Our oldest Beatrice and youngest Bryce, just under two years apart in age, both started at Bridges to Kinder, the preschool and pre-K program onsite at our school Westlake Elementary. 

Early on Bea struggled with auditory processing delays and a social angst, and we couldn't be more grateful to all the support we received then and throughout her elementary years. Now in middle school, she thrives academically and socially with a growing confidence as a leader. 

Early on Bryce struggled with exotropia, a vision problem where one eye migrates outward and binocular vision can be difficult. Our eye doctor at the time wasn't sure she'd need eye surgery in the future or not, and to date we haven't had to do that. She definitely still has it, but her eyeglasses have helped over the years. She also thrives in school and is excited to join her sister in middle school next year. 

For the past 10 years, my wife Amy and I have dropped off and picked up Beatrice and Bryce to and from school countless times. We've done classroom volunteering, dance assemblies, band, back-to-school barbecues, school auctions, science fairs, an overnight trip, and so much more in between. Amy was also in PTA leadership for five years.

Everything was humming along nicely until March of 2022. COVID-19 really impacted our school, as it did many schools everywhere. Having to distance learn sucked for the teachers just as much as the parents and children. I remember early on in the pandemic when we all thought (and hoped) that we'd only be out of in-person school for a few weeks. At the end of the school year in June 2020, our school teachers and administrators drove around neighborhoods in parade-like fashion to wave at all the kids and parents. That was bittersweet for us all, and little did we know it would be over a year later until we went back to in-person classes. 

And then at the end of 2021, one of our beloved teachers died suddenly. Bryce had her as a teacher for the kindergarten-1st grade combination class. When I asked Bryce what she remembered the most about her teacher, she said she remembers how she always helped kids smile and laugh, especially those who were having a bad day. 

Finally the long-awaited back-to-school barbecue happened this spring, the first time since 2019. I helped to organize the barbecue and was the emcee, which I had done before and loved. However, this time I had no idea how to reconnect the speakers or the mic. Finally, the school principal came over and helped me reconnect the speakers. I joked that it was way above my pay grade, and he joked that I was only supposed to be a supervisor anyway, not the AV tech; that was his job. We laughed and were just in time for me to welcome everyone. 

There are still a few more end-of-grade-school-era stories to come, but in the meantime, I think back to when our kids crossed the tiny bridge at their preschool graduation ceremony symbolizing the crossing into kindergarten and beyond. And now we're on the bridge to beyond for Bryce finishing 5th grade and  joining her sister next year in middle school. We're so grateful for all the wonderful and caring teachers we've had here, the empathic school staff and principal, all the friends our kids have made and the dear friends we've made these past 10 years. Blessings to you all. 

Thanks to Mom (and me)

I listened to the future with my back to her and smiled. I didn't want to disrupt my oldest daughter Beatrice as I sat and worked. My wife Amy sat next to her for support while Bea sat in front of the computer answering the virtual interview questions about attending a leadership camp in the summer. Her answers were effortless and delivered with a confidence I hadn't quite expected, but wasn't surprised to hear. 

Thirty minutes earlier I had picked her up at school and she was stressed about the interview for leadership camp. She'd had a long Monday at school that day (Monday's were always a long day for her), and like her father, was full of anxiety about the interview. But unlike her father, she talked through things, looking at the event to come from all vantage points, asking me questions about what they might ask her and how she should respond. So we role played on the way home and practiced her answers. 

Beatrice role played again with her mom when we got home. As I listened, I noted the differences between mom and dad; the fact that mom's demeanor was softer with empathy-laced words that embraced Bea like a supportive hug. 

It's not that I can't be that supportive, but I've always had sharper edges to my approach -- it's either this way or that way; yes or no; black or white. And that's okay, because we both love and care for our children and are supportive in our own ways that our children are grateful for and respond to. 

I listened to the future with my back to her and smiled. Beatrice has always aspired to be a leader, something I was dreadfully afraid of when I was 13 and in 7th grade. I could tell the interviewer was impressed with Bea's maturity and her thoughtful answers. I didn't even have to see my wife's smile to know how she felt, miles wider than mine, the warmth of her pride filling the room with celebratory love. 

She's the mom who's always there for our daughters. Always helping them with their school work and extracurricular activities. Always empowering them with social, emotional, and physical safety skills. Always helping them with friendship issues interpersonal relationships. Always knowing where all the stuff is when all of us ask where is all the stuff. Always making sure they eating healthy at home and everywhere we go. Always helping them understand their changing minds and bodies. Always helping me understand their changing minds and bodies. 

Amy is also always encouraging them to challenge themselves to learn, grow, and be the leaders they're becoming. Yes, I respond in kind, but she's the mom who does it all -- she's the inclusive executive leadership to my old-school middle management, and I love her for that. In fact, our youngest Bryce concurred at the end of our weekly family meeting on Mother's Day by saying, "Mom's the leader -- oh, and Dad does stuff too and takes care of the finance stuff."

Later in the day I said to Amy, "You are the leader, you know. Happy Mother's Day."

She kissed me and said, "We're a team," and I love her for that, too.

The week before Beatrice rocked her virtual leadership camp interview while we listened to the future and smiled. The future thanks to Mom (and me).  

Our Giving Tree

"And the tree was happy..."

—Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree

Sometimes I think about how change swirls around me at the speed of light. Imperceptible but omnipresent. Deconstructing and reconstructing at the subatomic level leaving in its wake an indefinite number of possibilities of what could be from what was and what is. How those changes impact my life and all the decisions I make each day that splinter into a million different potential alternate realities. 

Sometimes I think too much. Always have. 

Thankfully there are immediate mindful constants, the loving anchors around me that ground me to the now: my wife, our daughters, our pets, our home, our trees. One tree in particular. The tree that my wife Amy gave me.

Twenty-four years earlier, shortly after we met, I had these big beautiful grown trees outside of my second-story apartment balcony. I don't remember what they were exactly (maybe , but they'd been there for a long time with their roots pushing up on the sidewalk below.

The city decided the trees had to go, so they were cut down, the stumps removed, and the new cement sidewalks were poured. That's when we etched our initials in the wet cement, but that didn't last; years later the sidewalk was replaced again where our initials had once dried. 

Back to when the trees were cut down, though. Amy had bought me a wonderful present: a young Japanese maple in a pot. She knew how disappointed I was that the trees were removed and wanted me to have my own tree on my balcony. 

We had the tree for years when we moved into together, and while it did grow a little, it wasn't going to grow beyond the confines of its pot. I hoped someday it would have a yard of its own. 

When we bought our house a few years later, we finally had a backyard that we could call our own. At the time we were not planning on having children, and our small home and backyard was perfect for us. It was a new development at the time and the backyard was just weeds and rocky ground. We transformed it ourselves and planted the Japanese maple in the corner of our backyard. If it lived and grew, it would fit in nicely with the other maples planted in our new neighborhood's front yards and common areas. 

Our tree then grew and thrived. We changed our minds about having children and had two wonderful daughters who grew and thrived along with our tree. Even after the time we tried to trim the tree back ourselves and ended up hacking the heck out of it thinking we might've killed it. And even after our pet bunny gnawed on the base of the tree before we wrapped chicken wire around it. 

And even with the speed-of-light changes that have happened to our family throughout the years, it's continued to grow and thrive. If we ever left this house, which there were times we considered it, we knew couldn't take the tree with us. But we haven't left, and I don't think we ever will. 

Now, 24 years after Amy gave me this tree in a pot, it gives us a canopy of loving comfort. Every year it grows full and lush, then the leaves turn brown and red and fall to the ground, only to sprout again each spring. Unlike Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree, we've only taken from it the constant comfort that it gives us year after year. That's why our giving tree anchors me. Otherwise, we just let it be; our tree is happy.