Happy 50th Birthday to Me

“I’ve gone through life white-knuckled
In the moments that left me behind
Refusing to heed the yield
I penetrate the force fields in the blind
They say I'll adjust
God knows I must
But I'm not sure how
This natural selection picked me out to be
A dark horse running in a fantasy…”

—The Killers, Flesh and Bone

Like a ship on fire in the vacuum of space, I burned helplessly mute. In space, fire is unpredictable and tenacious, burning for longer periods of time, even when it seems to be out. In space, there is literally no sound, at least none heard like we can on planet earth.

So there I was, spiraling out of control and burning blue, when finally earth's gravity wound me back in and down to crash landing after crash landing. I escaped the fiery wreckage each and every time, but not before sustaining a recurring emotional concussion, one that made me feel insignificant and unworthy. One that left me wanting to run sobbing into the unknown horizon, to the point of know return.

I was 17 years old when my anxiety and crippling panic attacks started. Mostly from the inordinate pressure I put on myself to be liked, to succeed, to not be the skinny and shy asthmatic kid I used to be. Yes, I'd survived growing up in domestic violence and sexual abuse, but I never wore those chains like radioactive bling for all to see. In fact, I didn't really connect the past to the present anxiety until therapy in my 20's.

My memories weren't repressed, just more like emotional missives written but never sent to the ones who cared for me the most, the ones who misunderstood me. My interstellar trauma trips continued throughout my life, but thankfully decreased dramatically over the past two decades.

When I was in college I used to imagine what my world would be like in the year 2000, the year I'd turn 35. Envisioning that future-scape included visions of grandeur and popularity, of complete self-awareness and impulse control, of being anxiety free, of being smoke-free and healthy, of saving children from violence and abuse, of being loved by the love of my life, of being a good husband and father, of having the peaceful popularity of being the next Lee and Kerouac and Faulkner and Hemingway and writing my own great American neo-hipster novel. All before running out of time.

Back then I would've said you were as crazy as a loon if you thought I'd someday be comfortable in my own skin, mostly impenetrable from the extreme temperatures of the ever-expanding universe and the very fabric of relative time.

Now, in 2015, you weren't so crazy after all. Although I'm nobody's hero, I am a survivor who finally learned how to cope and manage the rhythm of my own overreactions and who's navigated life's booms and busts fairly well with a sometimes witty, self-deprecating grace. Sometimes...

And although I didn't write that novel yet, I have found a modicum of success and I did find the love of my life -- and two little lovely girls later, the fatherhood I never had as a child. I've learned that you don't ever run out of time, you just learn how to run alongside it and make it a partner for life for whatever duration that ends up being.

In space, no one can hear you burn. Welcome to planet earth, Kevin. And welcome home.

Happy 50th birthday to me.

A Bhive-Sized Group Hug Cry

They hadn't noticed the tears already leaking out the corners of both my eyes. I kept wiping them away quickly, not because I was ashamed for crying, but because I worried it would make them upset.

The Mama was away at a Kidpower workshop and Daddy was in charge. The girls and I already had a happy afternoon of pizza and ice cream and then we came home to watch the animated movie Home, a story about friendship and looking out for the friends and family you love.

This of course was an unrealistic wish, for them to not see me cry, since both girls are older now and more aware of themselves and the world around them, their level of empathy awakened forever. And the fact that they've already seen Daddy cry many times. Thank goodness for this, both seeing Daddy cry and their awakened empathy. And although they're still young, the Mama and I have nurtured their emotional intelligence since the first glimpse of their empathic differentiation.

I am a proud, self-admitted cryer. Happy or sad, my tears have flowed freely from my earliest memories. I still remember quite vividly my 4th grade teacher Mr. Tapilaris reading Where the Red Fern Grows to the class, the story of a boy and his dogs. The year before my parents had gotten divorced and my beloved Australian Shepard at the time, Poco was her name, went to live with my soon to be estranged birth father.

But I never was teased much if at all about being a cryer. That's always struck me as odd growing up being a boy and not being teased for being a girlie-girl or a sissy or a cry-baby. It was just never a thing for me, my immediate friends or family or others who knew me, so from the outsiders' perspective, it wasn't a thing for them either.

So the Mama and I don't want it to be a thing for Beatrice or Bryce growing up either. We want them to be comfortable of their own emotional responses to those they come in contact with throughout their lives and the world at large. The Mama is not a cryer like I am, although I've seen her cry. We tease each other about our respective crying thresholds, but it's always about embracing what makes up our whole selves and why we love each other.

Bryce is like me this way, the intense deep feeler who's up and down and up and down and all heart smeared all over her sleeves and every other inch of her, light years from impulse control. Even when I finally overcame the impulse drive, I still cry at almost anything laced with happy or sad.

Up until quite recently we thought Bea was more like the Mama as well. However, after I had already been crying during the movie Home, I looked over at Bea sitting on our couch and she had her new signature crying face queued up -- both sets of fingers shoved into her mouth as if she were trying to stop herself from throwing up. Then the tears welled and flowed freely. That was then the catalyst for Bryce to start crying, and in a New York minute all three of us were crying.

Channeling the Mama, I did take the time to discuss why the girls (and me) were feeling what they were feeling. I'm proud to be empathically balanced Big Daddy Girl and don't think of it as a derogatory label, at least not in the context of a Bhive-sized group hug cry.

You feel me?

Because Malls, Mary Janes and Making Up

The part when the Mama's right on the friggin' money. Which is usually most of the time.

"It's like 'The Family Man' when they go to store after store in the mall and Jack Campbell wants his Mary Janes, right?"

Right. That part.

That was during lunch, hours before the end of the endless errands. Already a Daddy Goat Gruff from earlier in the morning, because I let the "bother" bother me selfishly before I articulated the why of it, and the fact that the Mama had a stressful week before as well that I selfishly neglected to acknowledge at a vulnerable moment when the bother bothered -- the foresight irony of eating at the iconic Santa Cruz Crow's Nest wasn't lost on me.

Land (of emotional intelligence) ahoy!

Unlike Jack Campbell's frustration of braving the family trip to the mall, my "new suit" payoff had already been guaranteed. I had recently purchased a new one for a conference in Ireland and needed a few alterations. Picking up the altered suit was the end of the errand day.

And while it still takes me a little while to extinguish the gruffness, extinguishing she does come. Because malls. But not just that -- because malls with the Mama and the B-hive. I know, counterintuitive to the dangerous emotional riptide malls can cause, but since there's The Santa Cruz Children's Museum of Discovery, the local mall makes for an educational visit. We're members of the discovery museum and the girls (and us) love it. 

Land (of science and discovery) ahoy!

Plus, there's a tiny merry-go-round to ride elsewhere in the mall. That and at the last minute the Mama bought me my Mary Janes -- a Star Wars backpack -- knowing how Star-Wars poor I had grown up, only owning a few sets of trading cards back in the day.

Double plus -- the part about communicating and making up. Always a pleasure when you love each other and work on making the long-term pragmagical magic.

Right on, Baby. Because malls, Mary Janes and making up.

To Always See the Squirrels Through the Trees

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

—Paul McCartney

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

"Do you want to go home?"

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

"No, no, no!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get into your child's world.

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

"Okay."

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

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

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

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

"What does it matter to you?

When you got a job to do

You got to do it well

You got to give the other fellow—"

Love.

May the #BhivePower Be With You

When I heard it the first time, my heart filled with love and faith, and my spirit transcended the atmospheric sensitivity of childhood scarring.

“Chewie, we’re home.”

For some, the words are meaningless, nothing more than another passing obscure reference of no interest, something silly for the crazies of sci-fi fandom.

But for me, it’s beyond moving. It lifts me up and holds me close, as if I were a lost, frightened child finally found, held tightly in my broken mother’s loving embrace.

In the summer of 1977, the world was complicated. We were still recovering from the longest and steepest recession at that time. Middle East tensions ran high. Domestic violence awareness and child abuse awareness was in its infancy. Political myopia was everywhere. We seemed to be a highly disconnected world in the wake of early technological innovation.

My own complicated world at the time was still years from full recovery, living with domestic violence and abuse. Star Wars was to become a savior of sorts for me, and why I convinced my little sister to stand in the long hot line with me at the Fox Theater in Visalia, CA to see the new space epic.

We sat in the dark theater and held fast the seats beneath us, looking aspirational celluloid straight in the eye. I remember with stellar clarity the journey to a galaxy far, far away when I became one with rogues, rebels, villains and heroes and a musical score that haunts me to this day.

Nothing else really mattered until the house lights came up and it’s all I could talk about for the rest of that summer. But I carried with me a newfound hope, and now decades later, multi-generations of fans wait longingly for the next chapter of the Star Wars saga.

Chewie, we’re home sent chills through many of us and we cheered along (and I’m still cheering since I’ve watched the new trailer over and over and over again), yet again living in a complicated parallel universe to 1977: economic recovery, global tension, political myopia, accessible domestic violence and child abuse awareness, a now highly interconnected world via a mobile and social tech explosion.

That's why I'm so excited for my girls to watch the films someday soon, distanced only by the obvious differences they're growing up with (for the better) than I did. They've already had a lot of indirect exposure from me (go figure) and from other shows and stories, and are drawing pictures of their favorite characters (Beatrice tends to be drawn to the villains of stories, so we'll have to watch that young Padawan). The Mama's onboard as well having seen Star Wars when she was about Beatrice's age.

Even with the mixed reviews of two-dimensional female anti-hero Padme years ago, her daughter Leia will always rock with fiery independence and strong leadership, tempered by grace and compassion.

"You have that power, too,” says Luke Skywalker in the latest Star Wars teaser trailer. Of course he’s referring to “The Force.”

Make fun of me if you want, but we should all aspire to have it. Always. #BhivePower

Heads Held High Above Our Failed Fray

“Then I looked up. And I said, ‘Oh, MAN!’ 
And that’s how Wacky Wednesday began.” 
—Dr. Seuss

Nope, you can't have it all. Not even the daddies. You just can't co-host an Internet radio show and help coach your daughter's little league T-ball game at the same time.

Maybe reading Wacky Wednesday on Tuesday night is what started it all. It wasn’t my worst mistake ever, but it still bothered me – just poor decision-making than anything else based on limited data, guesswork and of course wishful thinking.

Listening to the Reply All podcast episode The Time Traveler and the Hitman on that Thursday morning while I worked out didn’t help me much either. The episode told the story of John Silveira who in 1997 placed a joke classified ad in a tiny publication called Backwoods Home Magazine asking if anyone wanted to travel back in time with him. Surprisingly a lot of people took him seriously wanting him to fix the worst mistakes they’d ever made.

Again, it wasn’t my worst mistake, and I probably wouldn’t have written John Silveira asking for his help, much less even finding his ad in print or online where it eventually ended up. But it got me thinking about the “what if” of going back to undo the poor decision-making process. What if I could?

When you’re co-hosting a live Internet radio show, it’s best to launch it in a quiet, secure environment, one where the Internet connection is sound. Where my guesswork and wishful thinking went wrong was when I decided I could practically do anything from anywhere with my Wi-Fi hotspot and any device.

In this case, launch our show from the near the field where my oldest daughter plays little league T-ball, and where I’m one of the assistant coaches for her team. Unfortunately my Wi-Fi hotspot wasn’t strong enough and I a few minutes before the show started I frantically texted my friend and co-host, Meghan M. Biro, to launch the show.

We pulled that off, but then one our guests had a poor dial-in connection that sounded like we had cement mixers on the show. After he disconnected and dialed back in, we finished strong and then moved on to our Twitter chat portion. But I was already late to the game and caught half-focused online and real-time on the field.

I rolled with it all and adapted as quickly as I could, though, keeping my composure and delivering upbeat no matter what. There’s no other choice for those of us who are aware enough of our own limitations and strengths and where our emotional intelligence affects how we make decisions, mistakes, adjust and ultimately achieve positive results. This of course all validated by analyzing high EQ data on over a million people according to a recent LinkedIn article by Dr. Travis Bradberry.

Sure, time travel could have saved one of two things I had control over, but not both. We can’t have it all no matter how much we think we can – a common myth we perpetuate no matter what the painful reality tells us. I'm sure you all have many more train wreck examples of what goes wrong when you try to have it all.

Longing for time travel doesn't change what happened; it only saps us of the mindful presence needed to keep ourselves moving along, heads held high above our failed fray.

But then again, there was that one time in 1989...

The Joy of Zenning Hard and Well

"It's not what you look at that matters, it's what you see." --Thoreau

So many things we want to pass on to them, to teach them, to arm them the ability to disarm under duress, without backing down and with minimal compromise when needed in their ongoing search for self and relative happiness.

Our children, genetic blend upon genetic blend, whether ours or others, hopefully will learn and development in a way that sets them up for success. Not success in the way that we initially think of it -- oodles of money, security and some monumental impact on the world -- but success in the way they live, in what they see, in how they react to every incremental circumstance good, bad or in between.

Success from the joy of Zen. (We may joke about the realities of finding oneself and achieving enlightenment, but I'll be damned if I don't have the last laugh.)

However, I hope, but can only imagine, that our girls' future is brighter and more opportune than the generation before them. According to Pew Research, "Millennials are also the first in the modern era to have higher levels of student loan debt, poverty and unemployment, and lower levels of wealth and personal income than their two immediate predecessor generations (Gen Xers and Boomers) had at the same stage of their life cycles."

And yet, according to the same recent research, they're the most optimistic about their economic prospects. But they're also quite distrustful of others compared to other generations. What a conundrum. I hope that's not the case with our girls' generation.

Again, we hope we're helping them "see" as clearly as possible, regardless of what they're "looking at," using positive discipline so as to encourage healthy emotional intelligence development. Easier said than done for me, since I'm such a grump jumper.

Meaning that, although I've come a long way with my own "Zenning hard" self (continuous non-reactive "balance" development takes a lot of energy), it's too easy for me to jump to being a grumpy Daddysaur in the face of, oh, things like a broken sewer line six feet down in our front yard costing us thousands of unplanned for dollars. 

Holy crap indeed. Yep, whatever stink life throws in front of us, grumping jumping ain't solving much of anything except making others, and yourself, feel like crap. (I'll end the sewage metaphors now.)

And did I tell you I dropped my iPhone face first onto frozen concrete? Did you hear that glass shatter? Sure that's pretty mild with all the other crappy (sorry) things and people that can happen to us in life, but most kids are grump jumpers by default, and impulse control is important to learn and no time like the pending mindful presence of toddlerville today. 

The Mama and I want our girls to be relentless in their search for self and relative happiness while celebrating those who both complement, and challenge, the journey. 

Zen hard, my girls. And Zen well.

The many themes of Independence are flying high

"Um, um, um, red!"

"Okay, let's play with red."

"No -- um, um, um, white!"

"Okay, white."

"No -- um, um, um, blue!"

"Blue it is."

"Um, um, um, make french fries."

"Let's do it, sweetie."

That's us playing with Beatrice and her Cookie Monster Play-Doh food thingie-ma-bob yesterday. She was choosing the Play-Doh colors she preferred to play with, and while I manipulated the colors a little, because we don't really have white, it's been fascinating to witness Bea's word and sentence explosion these past few months as well as her daily awareness of the world around her and her path to independence.

Toddler independence that is. No, she's not driving and she won't be getting her own apartment anytime soon because's she's started grad school, but she is crossing that final length of Baby Bridge to Toddlerville and three years old.

Again, fascinating to be a witness to, to be parents of, to be mentors of, to be students of. (Yikes, and Bryce isn't too far behind not that she's a stumble or two away from walking.)

Play-Doh is a genius maker. Plus, it smells good. (What? You don't think so?) It fires the imagination and is cathartic, for those of stable homes filled with love and security, and for those without, like the kids of domestic violence I've worked with at the Walnut Avenue Women's Center (which is where I made my Picasso-esque Play-Doh face you see here).

While we played with Bea yesterday, I made a snowman witch hybrid out of brown Play-Doh (gross, I know) and Bea looked at it and exclaimed:

"Penguin!"

Right on. The power of imagination.

Tomorrow we're going to Wilder Ranch State Park for an old-fashioned Independence Day and the many themes of independence will be flying high in the sky for me and my family.

The obvious celebration of America's birth and the reveling in individual freedoms, the democratic due process, and beloved expressions like my grandfather's blast from the past, "Hotter than a firecracker on the 4th of July!" [insert what here]

Financial independence, which unfortunately too many of us have taken a backseat to in this post-apocalyptic economic ice age.

Mindful presence and emotional intelligence independence, which takes a lot more work than lip service, but the positive benefits are limitless.

Toddler, teenage and adulthood independence, which share enough collective fireworks to light up the dark corners of the universe.

But Independence Day takes on a whole new meaning when you're dependent on a broken body. Love you, Mom. We'll see you very soon.

Happy 4th of July, Family America. Give yourself a hug, would you? And break out the Play-Doh, too.

The greater crossroads of work, fatherhood and emasculation

Emasculation.

At first glance and enunciation, it sounds a man empowered.

After a week of working much harder for a lot less and topping it off with a day of daddy daycare with the toddler and infant girls, I am filled with emasculation!

But that's not it. Not even close.

It's actually more like this -- to deprive of strength or vigor; to weaken.

I know. Many of you out there are thinking, "Kevin, what are you talking about? Taking care of your children isn't supposed to be emasculating. You know better than that."

I do. I also know that there are many fathers out there at a greater crossroads of emasculation. These are men who have lost their jobs, who have struggled to find work and provide for their families, who have no idea how to adapt to an ever-changing global workplace -- now with more women working in the U.S. than men.

Some have embraced the new full-time and part-time stay-at-home daddy roles and I commend them for that. Mama sees it as a blessing that I've been able to work from home and help so much since Bryce was born.

But for too many others, it's been a very difficult road of plausible deniability, particularly when the resources aren't there for them to deal with the emotional reality while various kinds of abuses begin.

I can relate to those who have tried and still try to get a business working, as well as simply finding regular work. I am fortunate in the fact that I've developed my emotional intelligence and have learned to cope with change, chosen or inflicted.

It still ain't easy, though. And going back to that greater crossroads is the fact that too many men, who are fathers, are failing to respond appropriately to these changes.

On September 15, 2010 – one 24-hour period – domestic violence victim advocates served more than 70,000 adults and children and answered more than 20,000 emergency hotline calls. During the same 24 hours, more than 9,000 requests for services went unmet, largely due to lack of funding.

This from a new survey conducted by the National Network to End Domestic Violence (NNEDV) that reveals telling information about domestic violence services in the U.S.

Now, not all of these calls were about abusive fathers, but the facts are that a very high percentage of domestic violence incidents are perpetrated by men.

Though the economy does not cause domestic violence, factors associated with economic uncertainties can increase the severity and frequency of abuse. At the same time, options for survivors to escape can be more limited. More than 80 percent of local domestic violence programs reported an increased demand for their services while nearly the same number reported decreases in funding.

Those who know me know I'm all about gender-role fluidity, workplace equality, emotional self-awareness and management. That also means friends and family of those less so need to intervene prior to the dangerous greater crossroads that have fewer and fewer resources and safe havens.

If you've never felt the broken pride that leads to feeling less of a man and provider, then you have no idea what I'm talking about. It's not funny in the slightest -- it's frustrating, frightening, maddening and depressing. Socioeconomic change is always difficult, and for many men, it's an excruciating back-breaker.

Fathers and gentlemen, know this -- I've always got your back.

Watch Telling Amy's Story. Then talk about it. A lot.

"You're a writer? Wow. I've always wanted to tell my story."

"You should tell tell it," I said. "Everyone needs to hear the stories of domestic violence to help generate more awareness and encourage prevention."

She nodded. "You're right. They do."

That's part of a conversation I had with a woman who works for the Walnut Avenue Women's Center where I've started volunteering. We were picking up donated supplies for families in need.

I'm shared my family's story more than once and will keep sharing it. When I told the woman from the center a little about it, she said:

"We definitely need more positive male role models like you."

I smiled. "That's only because I had so many bad ones growing up, but I do the best I can. Once we had our first daughter, that was all she wrote."

But even after all that I've experienced and all that I've researched and know, nothing prepared me for the documentary Telling Amy's Story.

I've read about it, watched the trailers, talked about it with other domestic violence awareness champions -- but I hadn't seen it until today. I finally ordered the DVD that arrived this week (you can also check your local PBS channels for possible airings).

The trailer is below; I may have shared it on this blog before. Whether you've had to deal with domestic violence in your life or not, everyone should watch this movie.

Then talk about it. A lot.

Domestic violence is a serious problem that impacts people at home, in the workplace, and in the community. One of the first steps to end it is to talk about it.

Check out these stats:

• According to a 2008 study by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, about 1/4 of all women in the U.S. report that they have experienced domestic violence.
• On average, more than 3 women are murdered by their husbands or boyfriends in this country every day.
• Nearly 7.8 million women have been raped by an intimate partner at some point in their lifetime.
• 1 in 3 women worldwide has been beaten, coerced into sex, or otherwise abused.
• 1 in 5 female high school students reports being physically and/or sexually abused by a dating partner. Abused girls are significantly more likely to get involved in other risky behaviors. They are 4 to 6 times more likely to get pregnant and 8 to 9 times more likely to attempt suicide than their non-abused peers.
• 1 in 3 teens report knowing a friend or peer who has been hit, punched, slapped, choked, or otherwise physically hurt by his/her partner.

It's also not just about helping the victims post-violence, it's also about understanding why abusers abuse and how to prevent it.

Based on the latest research around emotional intelligence, and the fact that abusers have collectively lower EI than non-abusive folk, that's a place to start -- to ensure empathic awareness is more developed.

Especially when they're children and teenagers (something else I'm going to get more involved with in 2011).

There are tons of great resources on the Telling Amy's Story website that you can download today.

But do see the movie and talk about it.

"Just save one life...just one."

--Deidri Fishel, the detective who investigated Amy's case and narrates the story.

Why I prefer my monsters be Cookie Monsters

Although there have been two attempted sexual assaults on young women in two days, Santa Cruz police statistics indicate a falling trend in such incidents in the past 12 months.

That from a Santa Cruz Sentinel article this week.

Two attempts too many when you're a Mama and Daddy with two little girls at home. Unfortunately, the stats of broader violence against women are still staggering worldwide.

It scares me to death that too many of my gender are still so susceptible to such irrational violence (yes, there are women who fall into this category as well). Evolution and the hand of God haven't changed things much.

However, violent behavior isn't rational. It's either full of uncontrollable emotion or void of any emotion. Emotion is the variable in the equation, trapped in a subconscious cage with tiny impulsive monsters that inconsistently ignore and poke and prod.

Even with the advances in neuroscience and the science behind emotional intelligence and the fact that emotions play a big role in behavior, we still put up more of a fight against faceless villains like cancer. As we should be. I've had friends and family die from cancer and I'm sure many of you had as well.

But violence is a cancer too, and the fact is we can help prevent it and save a life. It all starts with us. It all starts with our two little girls, just as it all starts with you and yours, regardless of status or economic strata.

At some point the monsters may push emotion out of someone's cage and over the edge. Let's ensure there are enough safety lines already in place to pull us back up.

Which is why I prefer my monsters be Cookie Monsters. They satiate the pleasure center and no one gets hurt.

Except the belly.

Surprising the Neigh-Neigh

Watching Bea, I had an epiphany.

Not necessarily new, since I had just read a similar sentiment recently, but connecting the dots generated enough power to light me up.

The fact that when we're young, we're more likely to try the impossible, even if elder others tell us it can't be done.

Jack-ass and destructive activities aside -- I'm talking about positive game-changing activities, like creating integrated circuitry on the head of a pin or developing the neuroscience behind emotional intelligence and teaching us to lead ourselves to a less divisive promised land.

Was Bea imaging springing herself atop the wild mustang to ride away like the wind?

I don't know. Maybe. Remember, she's 2.

It doesn't matter that we as adults know she couldn't do it. She believed she could, or whatever she was imagining.

Fellow leadership Twitterer @angelabisignano tweeted the other day:

If you want great leaders raise great kids.

And one way to do that?

Keep them surprising the neigh-neigh.

Guys can be Gal Pals too to help end domestic violence.

I've been writing a lot on my new work blog (Leaders. Better. Brighter.™) about how emotional intelligence makes for a more engaged workforce and transformational leadership.

Of course that includes personal leadership and the family as well.

Having developed emotional intelligence (as opposed to our standard definition of IQ) means you have:

• An awareness of your own emotions
• An awareness of emotions in others
• An understanding of emotions
• And the ability to manage one's own emotions and the emotions of others

For many it's no easy feat, but it can be assessed and developed over time.

One striking component of being emotionally intelligent is the high degree of impulse control.

And without it, the lack thereof.

Like those who hurt others in domestic violence.

Conversely, those who are aware, understand and can manage their emotions are more likely to reach out, educate and help victims and perpetrators of domestic violence.

Men and women, mommies and daddies alike can get their Em-tel™ on and make a difference. (Em-tel™ is just my “emotional intelligence” word play on the term “intel”, or intelligence information.)

According to The Allstate Foundation Research, more than seven out of 10 Americans know someone who is or has been a victim of domestic violence, yet it still remains a taboo subject.

Domestic violence is an issue that does not discriminate - it impacts all genders, races and ages. The Tell a Gal Pal movement asks everyone to face domestic violence together by:

• Talking openly about domestic violence to break the taboo. Tell your Gal Pals - whether it's your best friend, sister, mother, daughter, niece, cousin or neighbor - to face domestic violence by discussing the issue, educating one another and showing support for survivors.
• Visiting ClicktoEmpower.org for easy ways to start the conversation, learn more about the resources available for those in need or read inspirational survivor stories.
• Speaking out against domestic violence when you see it. Call the police or National Domestic Violence Hotline (1-800-799-SAFE) to report domestic violence - you could help save a life.
• Volunteering at or donating items to a local domestic violence program. Contact your state domestic violence coalition for more information.

The Allstate Foundation is also encouraging Americans to join the conversation on Facebook to help support domestic violence survivors. For each person who visits the Click to Empower! Facebook page and pledges to Tell a Gal Pal about domestic violence, The Allstate Foundation will donate $1 to the National Network to End Domestic Violence (up to $20,000).

Guys can be Gal Pals too to help end domestic violence.

I've got three ladies in the house counting on that.

By the way, Domestic Violence Awareness Month starts in October, but please make it every month.

Bankruptcy can never be an option.

If trust is the currency of influence and sound leadership, then why are my peers filing chapter 13 when crises occur?

I'm talking about those in their 40's and 50's, the folks who are in "trust" positions who are supposed to be protect us and keep us from going astray.

But don't.

Take the regulatory offices in the U.S. A few years ago, employees of the Minerals Management Service "used cocaine and marijuana, and had sexual relations with oil and gas company representatives," according to a government report.

Then an oil rig platform in the Gulf of Mexico exploded.

According to a recent NPR Plant Money podcast:

Economists have been writing for decades about "regulatory capture" — the idea that regulators are "captured" by the industry they're supposed to be watching over, and wind up serving industry's interests.

So who's regulating the regulators?

Who's regulating our selves?

Anyone?

Is it yet another Sodom and Gomorrah winner take all recycle policy?

Expand outward generation after generation after generation: the subprime mortgage crisis -- the S&L crisis -- the Nummi Plant in the late 70's -- grifting of all flavors, shapes and sizes, personal and professional -- same outcome, different decade.

Regulating ebbs and flows. Laws that come and go.

Yet, we're not teaching personal leadership to our children and our children's children. Not to the point of breaking the cycle of being permanently broken.

We bend, we fail and some of us break. I certainly have. Unfortunately some of us break forever, though.

But if enough of us build up a personal savings of:

• Trust
• Accountability
• Dependability
  
• Adaptability
  
• Critical thinking
  
• Emotional intelligence
• And other high-yield personal strength bonds

And teach our children to do the same, while influencing others, then bankruptcy can never be an option.

Take the lead.