Always Room to Grow

There once was a man who thought not living was life. Who believed not making choices or taking chances could help him bank time for the end of his. To exchange the risk of pleasure and pain for longevity and a lonely but safe obscurity. To extend safe obscurity beyond his ceiling's expiration date. 

He always had a hard time with happy. But everyday not lived wouldn't stop his ceiling from caving into oblivion someday. Because that can happen at any time. 

That was me decades ago. For over the first half of my 60 years in this bittersweet world. Thankfully I was never buried by oblivion because I decide to live and take chances. To live as fully as possible in every moment that I breathe in and out, heart pumping, soul singing, grateful for my wife and my children. Grateful for even when I'm fussy, angry, or frustrated, since I will always be called back by my enlightened soul's siren song to safe harbor, not wrecked on the rocky shore of failure and regret. 

Nearly 30 years ago I met my wife Amy one day at the beach. Early on in our relationship she had bought me a journal with a cover that read "Celebrating the miracle of your choices." That still epitomizes my life lived ever since; Amy always celebrated her choices and helped me do the same. It's part of our wedding vows that we read to each other on our anniversary. Our children are extensions of these celebrations and this blog is a testament to that celebration. 

Speaking of celebrations, some of my dearest friends of over 40 years from high school and college have turned 60 this year, including me. Although we lost a dear friend earlier this year who made it to 59, we're all still bound by decades of shared friendship, values, love, and lessons learned, of surviving failure and regret, of forgiving ourselves and celebrating the miracle of our choices. 

One of those birthday celebrations was for our friend Rob. The evening was filled with reminiscing about the past, celebrating the present, and manifesting our hopeful futures' promise. When the party wound down and we all started to say our goodbyes, Rob asked me how it felt to be 60. Before I answered I asked him how he felt. He said he felt great, that it was crazy we were actually here now. 

I said, "I feel great, too, but I am feeling the ceiling."

Rob's girlfriend asked me what I meant by that, and I responded that maybe there was another 20+ years left, if I stayed healthy. 

"There's much more life to live," she said, smiling. "Don't dwell on the ceiling."

She's right. I may be feeling the ceiling but there's always room to grow.

Whatever We Want It to B

“The treasure of a life is a measure of love and respect,
The way you live, the gifts that you give
In the fullness of time,
It's the only return that you expect…”

—Neil Peart, Rush, The Garden

It's ritual. Every single night after we read stories and put them to bed, unless I'm traveling for work. Before we start, I have to consider the physics of each turn: their weight, distribution, arc, launch and landing. Of course I don't want to hurt them, but I also don't want to hurt myself either.

They're still young. I'm not getting any younger.

Oh, and there's the count. Always there's a count. The count is important because, while it's always the same count from me, it's their opportunity for creative variation.

Every night the Mama says, "Girls, you want a swing?"

"Yes!"

Beatrice is usually first. Not because she's oldest or for any other particular reason other than she's the one who falls asleep the fastest of the two. Bryce's fire can take another 30 to 45 minutes to put out, something the Mama is painfully aware of and deals with every night.

Beatrice always has to hold one of her stuffed animals when I swing her. She'll then stand up straight and I pick her up in my arms. Mercy me, she's a big girl now, being in the 95th percentile of height and weight for her age, so I really have to be careful for me.

The swinging commences, more of a simple swaying in my arms as I count.

"One...what's after one?" I ask, in synch with the sway.

"Two," Bea answers. Sway.

"Two...what's after two?" Sway.

"Three." Sway.

"Three...what's after three?" Sway.

"Octopus!"

Sway. Launch. Land on the bed.

The answer is always different on four, whatever's top of mind for either of them, an outlet to get the sillies out. After Bea, Bryce gets her swing, and it's like picking up a feather compared to Bea. Bryce is on the other end of the developmental scale. She's quite healthy, just much more of a light sprite.

After launching them both on their respective beds, Mama takes over and tucks them in and wraps up bedtime. I go downstairs and am left to my own devices, literally and figuratively, sometimes working or reading, sometimes playing on Facebook. But sometimes the physics around me manifest into physical spirals, swirls and sways, and time circles back on itself.

Beatrice's birthday is two days away. Bryce's was last month. I reminisce their birth stories, Beatrice's being much more dramatic than Bryce's, but I remember the first time I held each girl in my arms, the sway and the coo. The feeling that this is the very beginning of time, their time, and in those moments nothing could steal that away. I remember gently handing each girl back to the Mama (no launching yet) and thinking, What a difference a life makes.

They're still young. I'm not getting any younger. I wonder about the sway of the next 30 years...

Time circles back again and it's last month three years ago. My dad is dying of stage 3 melanoma. He decides he no longer wants experimental chemotherapy and we bring in hospice. In less than one week he goes from lucid levity and walking on his own to being unable to talk or walk. His body weight has dropped dramatically and it's now only a matter of time. It always is.

He points weakly to the bathroom. I know he has to go so I put his left arm around my neck and walk-carry him to the bathroom.

One.

Two.

Three.

Sway.

The first few feet are fine and all I can think about is how he's let himself be helped in this way, how he's surrendered to his failed body, to his son, to his God. The peace he's made with it all, it now spirals, swirls and sways around us as we finally reach the bathroom. He looks at me and smiles weakly. We're both exhausted. What a difference 10 feet makes. Two days later he was gone.

Time circles back again. We're still young. I can still swing my girls every night and launch them into slumberland. The Mama still takes over and tucks them in.

Three...what's after three?

Whatever we want it to B.

This new magic of now

The teenagers threw us for a few minutes. Yes, the Mama was told they were college kids, but mercy me did they look like kids. They were supposed to resemble a prince and princess -- correction -- the girl had called and asked if it would be okay if she dressed up like a fairy.

But when they walked in the house, the boy wore a Navy-like military outfit in all white with a Burger King-esque crown on, kind of a Prince Harry caricature (clothed), and the girl wore a conservative "I Dream of Jeannie" outfit that never made it off the studio rack to the sound stage. They hauled in boxes of stuff with them. What stuff we weren't sure of.

I mean, they really looked like kids, and I was worried. They were supposed to perform magic tricks, paint faces and make animal balloons. And fortunately that's exactly what they did, although Bea's birthday four-year-old and younger party attendees were just happy when the dressed up "older kids" strolled through the house to the backyard with the mysterious boxes. I joked with the Mama asking her if she had ordered ponies, too. Thankfully she didn't.

We laid out blankets on the grass for the kids and parents to sit on while Prince Harry and Jeannie started the show. The kids loved every minute of it, Beatrice as bubbly as I've ever seen her. One little boy was overheard saying:

"I didn't know magic even existed."

Brilliant. And you know what else is a big hit with a little kids' magic show? The little animals. The cuddly, furry and feathery little animals. The magic kids brought a hamster, rabbit and dove to share -- or more specifically, made them appear. Everyone had a chance to pet them after the fact.

Of course Bea loved opening gifts and immediately playing with and sharing all her new toys with all her guests and her little sister. For being the youngest, Bryce held up pretty well, but was also the one who dragged and dropped her iced cupcake all over the living room. What did we expect, right? Give a kid a loaded cupcake…

Oh, the party was so much fun. Really. We couldn't have dreamt it go any better. The magic kids, their live trick animals, the face painting, the balloon animals, the pizza, the cupcakes and cupcake decorating (which thankfully didn't turn into a sticky sweet mess), all of it fun beyond measure for the kids, for the me and the Mama, for Nonna, for my best friend Troy and his children, and all the other parents who came over to celebrate.

The best part came in witnessing our elder birthday B interact and play with the other kids, laughing and tousling one another without incident, gasping and giggling with ever sleight of hand and surprise animals to pet, sharing and playing with toys and gobbling up pizza and pink cupcakes and slurping down juice. 

*sigh*

I didn't even know this kind of magic existed, this new magic of now.

Happy Birthday Beatrice.

Family love has a dizzying trajectory

Atoms spin at different speeds. The younger, faster B atoms swirl around
the older, slower A and K atoms, keeping the older, slower atoms a little younger and a little faster.

But time is much different physics for the younger atoms. A moment to the B's could be days for the A and K. Even weeks. And the faster it moves for A and K doesn't seem to affect the B time, or it can make them move even slower.

And be crankier.


Yesterday I took Beatrice to her occupational therapy session, which went well; the progress she's made since last year in getting her neural network to fire age-appropriately has been excellent. But afterwards she wanted to play in the playground right outside of the building we go to, and I wanted to get us to the lighthouse to meet the Mama and Bryce so we could all see the Space Shuttle fly. I encouraged her positively and even tried to barter, but she fought and cried and mercy if the school we were at (which isn't where Bea goes) didn't think I was stealing a child. Ended up she was fine once we got to the Mama and Bryce. Sigh.

And last week we all went to see Bea at preschool where the Mama volunteers in the class -- me, Nonna and Bryce. But soon after I read a story to the class and we got to celebrating Bea's birthday, Bryce got ornery as all get up, which she does more often these days, so I removed her from the class crying and flailing and throwing herself to the ground, which outside meant atop the kid-safe bark that sticks to kids like velcro-friendly objects. Highly friendly objects. That stick everywhere. Hair, face, mouth, arms, legs. Ended up she was just hungry and wanted a snack. Sigh.


Thank goodness for the lightness of Pop. The B's are sister disco birthday sidekicks, now two and four respectively (but not always if you know what I mean). Since Pop's passing it's all been a blur -- the B, A and K atoms all accelerating to the speed of light and life -- providing for and nurturing family the best we can.

The B atoms whirl and spin even faster and faster around the A and K atoms. Family love has a dizzying trajectory but each other's gravity keeps us all in place.

Or spinning in a chair.

Learning to parent the perfect game

If everything came with a warning, would we lose our playful edge?

Don't tell that to Bryce. She'd nod aggressively and take off toddling right in the brambles of mystery and intrigue. She's all over the place, squawking and talking and climbing and falling.

All. Over. The. Place. Toddle, toddle, toddle, crash.

Even Bea, the elder who is usually is more tentative, has recently been feeling her independent oats, screeching off down the sidewalk in a catch-me-you-can cackle while we scream for her to stop, or wanting her gate down on her bed so she can get right up and scare the crap out of me, which will happen a lot more once she moves to the big-girl bed.

Bryce just turned one and Beatrice is about to turn three and start preschool, but unabashed exploration and play is such a huge part of their day.

I listened to a fascinating story recently from one of my favorite internet radio shows, Radiolab. The episode is titled Games and psychology professor Alison Gopnik explains the profound tension between play and rules. Somewhere between the ages of 3-6, once toddlers become children and start school, the free-wheeling liberalism of play becomes transformed into self-management by societal rules. Dr. Gopnik is also a big sports fan and says the perfect game in life is baseball, with its rules and structure disrupted by bursts of chaotic, free play.

Maybe. And maybe my girls will play the perfect game someday, but fast-forwarding is not my forte thankfully, because otherwise I'd be doing battle with two teenage girls, or attending college graduation, or walking them down the aisle, or holding my grandchildren, and God knows I'm not looking forward to that anytime soon.

Wait, who am I kidding? Of course I'm looking forward to every minute of chaotic, free play clashing with rules and warnings, living in the moment and learning to parent the perfect game.

Play ball.

I am thankful for birthdays; I am thankful for being.

"How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out."

I did that a few times today.

Hey, my birthday. Cry if I want to. Back off.

I am fragile and irrational. I am caring and loving. I am anchor and window. I am steely resolve.

I am exquisite contradiction.

As are we all.

I came downtown to work for a few hours at my NextSpace "space", but before I did, I attended The Clothesline Project for a bit and decorated a t-shirt in honor of Domestic Violence Awareness Month.

The Clothesline Project breaks the silence about domestic violence by giving a voice to survivors, victims, and community members. The clothesline was chosen to honor women’s traditional information exchange over the backyard fences while hanging laundry out to dry.

The clothesline displays T‐shirts designed by survivors of abuse, those who have lost loved ones to it, and allies in our community. The designed shirts are displayed during the Day of Unity event on a clothesline which is held by staff/volunteers.

I am thankful for my true love and my little girls. They are my daily muses who inspire me to be a better man.

I am thankful for my family and friends -- here, there and everywhere.

I am thankful for everything I've seen and everything I've learned and everything yet to learn.

I am thankful for failure and success.

I am thankful for birthdays; I am thankful for being.

"You see George, you've really had a wonderful life."

Thank you all.