More Heaven Than Hell

It feels like everyone and everything has gone darker than ever. Meaning, things that are dark and evil have more gravitas than things that are light and good. Yes, there are many dark things happening in the world today, that I will not argue, but I do wonder if we aren't manifesting some of that directly ourselves. (A remake of an old horror story, Nosferatu, about an obsessive vampire opened on Christmas Day 2024, for God's sake.)

Whatever the case, the darkness sells, and has throughout the history of humanity (we are a violent lot). An older example is one of my favorite books I read in college -- The Divine Comedy by the Italian writer Dante Alighieri. Actually a narrative poem finished around 1321, it's divided into three parts: Inferno, Purgatorio, and Paradiso. 

Ultimately, the poem is about the soul's journey toward God and is heavily grounded in medieval Catholic theology and philosophy. Dante makes the journey through hell, purgatory, and then paradise (heaven). But the Inferno (hell) has been referenced much more over the 700+ years since than the other two poems about purgatory or paradise. In fact, I've made the mistake multiple times of referencing Dante's Inferno as the entire work, when it's made up of the three parts above. 

The Roman poet Virgil guides Dante through Hell and Purgatory. But it's Beatrice, Dante's ideal woman, who guides him through Heaven. Beatrice was a Florentine woman he admired after meeting her in childhood. She was his muse, and it's that part of the story that I aggregate to, because my wife Amy became my muse from the moment we met. She's been guiding me toward heaven ever since.

I know, kinda sappy, and while the world today prefers more hell than heaven, we don't want to live that way. I've had plenty of hell in my lifetime to know I want muses who aim for paradise, not those who wallow in darkness. This is why when we decided to have children, that if she was a girl, her name would be Beatrice. And she was and that became her namesake; our guide through parenthood and beyond. 

We always wanted the opportunity to take both our kids to visit their namesakes, but to date, have only done that for Bryce, our second child. Back in May 2007 we had taken a Southwest road trip that became the tipping point to changing our minds about having children, especially after visiting Bryce Canyon. We went again in 2021 and that's when Bryce met their origin story.

When we planned for our current winter break trip to Rome and Athens, we knew we'd have to go to Florence, the birthplace of Dante Alighieri and where Dante first met his muse, Beatrice. And that's exactly what we did. That's when Beatrice met her origin story. 

Bryce claims that the dirty old Bryce Canyon in Utah isn't as glamorous as Florence in Italy, but we reminded both kids that there would be no origin stories without that Southwest road trip back in 2007 (Beatrice arrived in September 2008).

That's why we're super grateful. Not only to have taken both kids to visit their namesakes, and learn the what and why of them, but also to remind them they're the reasons why we'll always revel in more heaven than hell. Amen.

For the First Time Every Time

“Till I opened my eyes and walked out the door
And the clouds came tumbling down
And it's bye-bye, goodbye, I tried
And I twisted it wrong just to make it right
Had to leave myself behind
I've been flying high all night
So come pick me up, I've landed…”

—Ben Folds, Landed

Prologue: The One Who Leaves

It's amazing how many things you can fit in a Toyota RAV4 when you're finally ready to leave. All your clothes, childhood memories, small furniture, some dishes and utensils, a George Foreman grill, a boom box, CD's and other miscellaneous items packed haphazardly in boxes with a little help from a friend.

I sneezed from all the dust motes floating in the car. I wiped my nose and could feel her watching me from the curtain, still crying, heart breaking. I almost looked back, but didn't, and instead started the car and drove away.

As I drove, I couldn't see out the rearview mirror, only the side mirrors, but it didn't matter. I would be careful driving the 35 miles over the winding highway 17 through the mountains to Santa Cruz, soon to be my new home.

I'd hit the wall of unhappy even before we were married, which is no consolation to the one who wants to stay married, unhappy or not, college sweetheart or not, who still wants children or not. Our friendship compromised by emotional codependence, obsessive instability and anxiety attacks, an affair of the heart, infidelity, and a debt so big it sunk us to the bottom of the sea -- but none of that matters to the one who's left behind, alone with the ghosts and the darkness.

At the end of July, 1997, I drove away at dusk and cried all the way to my new apartment, a mixture of oppressive guilt, painful realities and a new freedom that lifted my spirits slightly. Weeks earlier when I found the apartment, I remember looking down the end of the street at the Pacific Ocean beyond, feeling an overwhelming sense of peace, and thought, I'm going to live here. I'm going to begin again here.

The one who leaves is the monster, there's no getting around that. But leaving then was only thing I could do that was right.


Chapter 1: Today

It's not like Trump was 20, or even 30, or good God even 40, which still doesn't mean he should've gotten a pass (which we unfortunately tend to do with affluent white boys and men in this country). He was 60. And recently married. And he had two daughters.

I'm only thankful my girls aren't old enough to ask me the questions, "Dad, why would he say that? Why would he do that?" Because my answer could just as graphic (but family friendly) about how offensive this truly is. Fathers (and mothers) of daughters (and sons) can never be okay with this.

Ever.


Chapter 2: The Sucker Punch

I had written that the rise in incivility and bullying is being sugarcoated as an appropriate backlash against a supposed overly political correctness.

But that's just a load of crap; it's simply lethargic ignorance to overreact and make it personal. To hurt those we don't like or agree with instead of having a productive and emotionally intelligent dialogue about agreeing to disagree. It's all about the "more" -- we let our misogynistic insults fly more in America than ever. Maybe I'm just paying more attention than ever, but it seems as though as women make more equality progress in the workplace, in public office and at home, and in leadership positions far and wide overall, the more the demeaning rhetoric flies.

I'm livid because of what I'm seeing and hearing, not only from the grand global political stage, but from friends, family and peers who seem to be forgiving this behavior as the status quo. Who add to the bullying discourse by concurring and piling on, or even worse, not speaking up and letting it slide. Who forgive our leaders (men and women alike) at all levels in business, government and in school who belittle our daughters (and sons) this way.

I'm livid and saddened because I believe we're better than that, although the Mama and I are painfully aware of what's coming for our girls as they get older. So like a superhero punch to the solar plexus, we're preparing them as best we can to be fully aware and walk away when they should, and to fight back when they must.

But then an old friend (and girlfriend) from high school sucker-punched me on Facebook after reading my article and called me a bully back then with her, saying I said things about her I never said. And it floored me.


Chapter 3: Back in the Day

Freshman year of high school. Hanging out with my friends at McDonald's after the football game, talking about what freshman boys talk about: sports, school and girls.

Another old girlfriend (not the one from Chapter 2) stormed in and confronted me. She accused me of sharing the intimate details of our relationship from over the summer, which I admittedly had done, and she berated me in front of my friends for what seemed eternity.

When she left, they teased me, but I was mortified. Not because of what she'd done in response, but because of what I had done.

That next week I apologized profusely. From that point on I learned to (mostly) keep to myself what needed keeping.


Chapter 4: No One's Ever Asking for It

No, this is about a young man who didn’t stop himself from raping when the girl lay unconscious behind a dumpster. He was the only cause. Not her. He went too far. Nobody’s asking for it. It wasn’t her fault. I remember one night early on dating my now wife, really drunk, both of us stumbling up the stairs to my apartment, making out and groping each other, and never in my most primal drunken delirium could I have forced myself on her, conscious or not.

Because the 20 minutes of Brock Turner’s rape really comes down to the seconds where he could’ve and should’ve stopped himself. Where he could’ve taken her home, no matter how inebriated, and then gone home himself and slept it off. However, like my dad always used to say (who was in law enforcement for over 32 years), “Should’ves and could’ves only count in horseshoes and hand grenades; they don’t mean shit.”

I have a wife and two daughters. Or, I could have a husband and two sons. It doesn’t matter when it comes to rape and sexual abuse. Either way I will defend their worth unconditionally, as they would defend mine.

I’m outraged. You should be as well. And he only served three months in jail for his rape. We must all give voice to victims of sexual abuse and rape. We must stop blaming the victims and start making the rapists and abusers accountable. We must be the defenders of those precious seconds prior to a life destroyed, to instill self-aware prevention in our children. We must support organizations like Kidpower, a global nonprofit leader in personal safety and violence prevention education, that provide positive prevention tips to help us focus on what to “DO” to handle different types of personal safety problems.

We must ultimately and definitively educate society here and abroad that no one’s ever asking for rape or sexual abuse. We're just asking for prevention and justice.


Chapter 5: Birth Story One

She was supposed to be born at home. But do to complications, that doesn't happen. We had to head to the emergency room at the birthing center.

Around 6:00 p.m. I go downstairs to get something to eat. Three minutes after I order a cheeseburger and fries and our midwife runs into the cafeteria telling me to come now. My first thought is the baby's coming. But as we're running back up the stairs, she says, "The baby crashed and they went to the OR!"

The baby crashed and they went to the OR.

The baby crashed.

The baby.

I feel like my body has fallen away and I'm flying towards the room. Everyone's yelling things I can't comprehend and they tell me to get the blue scrubs on. They lead me to the operating room and a nurse lets me in.

"You're the husband? Come this way."

Stark whiteness washes over me and I'm immediately sat next to Amy. She's shaking but strong and ready to go. I'm out of my mind but not showing it. The OB is there. There are nurses and the anesthesiologist and everyone's moving around doing things I don't understand. The leg clamps don't work on the table, so two of the nurses actually hold Amy's legs up. Amy pushes and pushes and the OB coaches her along. They didn't let our midwife in so it's just me holding Amy's hand and urging her on. And praying. I even joke at one point to offer my help in doing anything to get the baby out.

The OB says we're making progress and gets the vacuum ready. Based on what she's telling us, she's only going to try to vacuum three times and then we're doing a Caesarean. But the vacuum isn't holding any suction and they have to change it two times. The OB keeps encouraging Amy to push and push. The baby's heart rate stays in the safe range.

She pushes and pushes. Two sets of labor and two different experiences in 24 hours – at home and at the hospital. Finally the OB hooks the vacuum up and pulls and pop – she looks startled, falls back and smiles.

"There we go. It was the arm. The baby's arm was up over its head."

The baby's arm was up over its head. Wow.

A second later the baby is out, umbilical cord is cut and the baby is rushed over to a side table and cleaned. Amy's still shaking but smiling. She whispers, "I'd better pay my co-pay." The baby cries. The pediatrician who was in the operating room calls me over to see the baby and identify the sex.

I'm still flying when I see that B is a girl – our little Beatrice – all 7 lbs., 14 oz., and 21 inches of her.


Chapter 6: Today Again

God bless us all for our opinions and our choices. This is what America is all about. While I could never vote for tyranny, bullying, bigotry, misogyny or sexual assault -- even if the candidate has economic and foreign policy chops, and we know that score -- everybody has a right to their opinion and choice. But that's just me, and I will continue to be vocal about it.

And by the way, it's not okay for any man (or woman) regardless of where there political affiliation stands. We unfortunately have a long list of white male business leaders and politicians that go way back on this one.

I am speaking up because it's about empowering a bully and sexual predator free life for us all regardless of gender, ethnicity or sexual preference.

It's about our girls growing up.


Chapter 7: Birth Story Two

Beatrice had been up since 1:00 AM, primarily because of her cold and snotty nose, but also because she knew something was up.

Because our midwives had everything under control with Mama, it was up to me to tend to Bea if she needed it.

She did. Lots of it. She just couldn't go back to sleep and I had to stay in there so she wouldn't wail. She couldn't hear anything coming from our room; we keep a fan going in their for white noise and have been doing it since before she was born.

But she was obviously unsettled and aware of what's coming.

Mama had been in active labor since around 12:30 and the motion of the womb ocean was a series of storm-driven spindrift.

Things were moving fast and I was missing it.

I stroke Bea's arm one more time and whisper:

"I love you, baby, but I have to go help Mama."

As soon as I'm in our room, Bryce is entering the earth's atmosphere for the first time.

Of course I can't share the intimate details, but I can tell you that earlier she found her baby Zen center as contraction after contraction rolled through her.

Now I'm standing behind Mama on the side of the bed. She grabs my hand with a superhero power I remembered from the first time, pulls me down towards her on the bed and shrieks:

"Get it out of me!"

That's the final reality of birth, my friends. Guys, we have no idea. Nada. Zip. Imagine passing a hot bowling ball through your urethra.

Mother Mary of God, I think. There's a Bryce coming out of my wife.

You see, the first time with Bea I didn't see. That plan was to be at home as well. But this time we were at home and all is well.

And then it's done. We're in the moment of tearful Mama holding wet newborn to her breast, the universe expanding the heart and soul ad infinitum.

All 7 pounds, 8 1/2 ounces, and 20.5 inches of her. Welcome to the world, Baby Bryce.


Chapter 8: The Haters of Happy

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.

A little teasing I get, and I got my share growing up all the way into elder adulthood where I'm at today. I doled out a little myself. Sometimes the teasing was palatable and I'd laugh along, and sometimes it wasn't even close.

Through it all, I survived, and those I teased survived. Never in a million years did I bully verbally or physically to the point of wanting to hurt someone purposely and spitefully because of (fill in the blank). Pushed the teasing on occasion, yes. Bullying, no.

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.


Chapter 9:  When Gravity Triples with Sick

Daddy leaves a Toronto hotel at 4:30 AM EST. His flight is delayed for nearly 4 hours due to a maintenance issue. Daddy is unhappy because he misses his family and doesn't want to miss coaching soccer practice later that day, but safety first. A new plane is towed in and the 5-hour flight home starts shortly thereafter. Based on an average air speed of 490 miles per hour, and then the added bonus of the airport drive home during commute with an average speed of 35-45 miles per hour, what time does Daddy actually get home PST?

Gravity tripled again and I felt sick. Not only was I not going to see my girls for another six to seven hours (by the time I got home), I was going to miss soccer practice. I was going to let them all down -- my girls and the entire team -- and that really, really sucked. The Mama had to change up her schedule to get Beatrice to practice, and one of the other team parents stepped up to coach practice, and I was very thankful for both.

Let go and let Godot; the existential absurdity of it all hit rock bottom when I waited an additional painful 30 minutes for my suitcase at baggage claim. I know, I always say I hate being away from my family but love to travel -- first world problems and all that. I finally acquiesced to the fact that, no matter how long it took, I just needed to get home, safe and sound. That I would see my family soon. That I would also miss soccer practice, but would see my team at the game on Saturday. When gravity triples with sick you have to stand up straight and own it. I knew that all I had control over was my immediate actions and my reactions to this unfortunate circumstance, and although it didn't make me feel any better at the time, I just needed to get back intact.

And get back intact I did. Amen.

Chapter 10: The Night Before 

It was a Friday night, October 10, 1997. I don't remember exactly what I was doing, but I'm sure I was just hanging out in my apartment alone watching a little TV, maybe writing a little as well. The unraveling of my previous marriage and life had only just begun a few months earlier, and my life was only then at the beginning of a major transition that I had barely begun to understand.

Maybe that's why the late summer swell of El Niño had warmed the waters of the Pacific, to draw me to the sea below the lighthouse, to be there on that very day at that very moment...

But it was only the night before and I do remember there was an offshore flow warming the air outside on the balcony. One of the most beautiful times of the year in Santa Cruz is the month of October, at least during the years I've lived here, and especially the first one.

I had noticed her for weeks on the beach. Always alone, as was I. She was usually reading, always wearing a baseball cap, and always looking, well, quite lovely in whatever bathing suit she wore on any particular day.

But it was only the night before and I wasn't thinking of her. I was thinking of the wreck my life had become, how I had rammed myself against the rocky shore and then crawled back onto the beach half-drowned, but happy.


Chapter 11: The Day Of

Then it was the next day, October 11. We were on the beach again that afternoon as we'd been in the weeks prior.

I usually get the words wrong, but our lover lore recounts the fact that she walked up to me and asked:

"So, do you always come here alone?"

Like a fool, I almost didn't answer her; I wanted to be alone actually. Too soon, no matter how beautiful I thought she was.

But then, "Yes, I do. And you?"

And that was it. All she wrote. Only (mostly) blue sky ahead. Six years later we were married, on the same date. Five years after that we started a family.

The stark simplicity of how the universe sometimes smiles upon us was new to me. On the night before and the day of the rest of my life, I never imagined that I'd finally landed, and how happy I'd always be.

Happy Anniversary Honey.


Epilogue: For the First Time Every Time

It's like I see you then, now, every day for the first time, every time, 
The lovely young lady in the baseball cap and bathing suit
Perched upright in the orange beach chair nestled against the cliff base.
Your feet massaging the sand slowly, your eyes down in a book
So immersed in story that I didn't notice your glances my way
Or didn't think you noticed mine, my head down writing all the time.
Your long blonde hair like solar flares absorbed the light of others
Who passed between us, keeping the air around you warm and soft. 
The scene now reminds me of a shimmering silk tapestry, rich with color,
Seemingly unreal, a dream state, a place we've been before and 
Will go to again and again, a vista by sea and sand forever in memory.
The moment we met that day on the beach became a stunning ache
That has never left me — the soft light of your moving presence, 
A welcome sun that never fails to rise and lift my heart, hold it high 
In the sky and remind me this is how it feels to live life with love,
To be in love, to live boldly and burn brighter with the happy ache of 
Never wanting to be without, for that would mean we were never real, 
that our fated meeting had never happened, that our heartmeld fusion had
Never transformed two halves into two wholes, birthing two celestial
bodies locked in each other's gravity, a brilliant sun and moon, lovers 
And friends who can't look away from one another, who look out for
One another, who live life unabashed and empower their children in kind.
Two people who long to touch and hold and kiss and love one another 
to burn away any darkness or doubt with feverish clasp, the hungry want,
The kind of mythical pleasure shared only by the uninhibited gods and
Goddesses of antiquity. 

You are my stunning ache, Amy, and I see you then, now, every day
For the first time every time, and I am draped in the purest silken fire.

So Due For Some Afternoon Delight

For some reason the Valentine assembly line on the table made me think of Rosie the Riveter, except it was Mama the Pragmagical Maker, investing hours in putting together the girls' Valentines for school. Beatrice helped more with hers, writing her classmate names on each small paper heart, but Bryce's efforts were short-attention-span-theater lived, wanting instead to invest in other forms of Bryce-craft, making unicorns or interactive monkey houses.

I watched the Mama in fleeting moments throughout my busy work week -- and there she was putting tiny candy hearts in bags and sealing Valentines with red sticker hearts, complaining lovingly of the time invested and that next year she was not going to make such a production out of it, but I knew she would do it again and again and again...

...and then you go back in the way back day when you handed your Valentine's Day goodies out to your friends, and super excited to get yours, with "Be My Valentine" and "Sweetheart" and "You Are Too Cute" written all over the cards and candies and tiny gift bags...

...to years later in high school when you asked that super cute girl to the Valentine's Dance and she said yes and you danced close for the first time, so wonderfully and uncomfortably close, while your internal negotiations of whether you'd kiss her to not raged on...

...to years later in college and beyond experiencing torrid love and heartbreak and making mistakes that you promised yourself you'd never, ever make again...

...to years later one day at the beach and the buzz of the long run with kids and work and bills and family tragedies and drama and one thing after another that leaves you beat up and tired with a libido ground down to sand washed away yet again for another night...

...to the now of early morning when you wake up and imagine your wife as Princess Leia in the gold bikini thing in Return of the Jedi, except she's actually still Rosie the Riveter, or more like, Leia the Riveter, and then you find an off-centered picture of her the Bryce-crafter took and your heart beats fast because she's your super hot wife and you love her and miss her and...

We are so due for some afternoon delight. Happy Valentine's Day, Sweetie. 

The night before the rest of my life

There's always a night before the moment that changes your life.

It was a Friday night, October 10, 1997. I don't remember exactly what I was doing, but I'm sure I was just hanging out in my apartment alone watching a little TV, maybe writing a little as well. My life was only then at the beginning of a major transition that I had barely begun to understand.

Maybe that's why the late summer swell of El Niño had warmed the waters of the Pacific, to draw me to the sea below the lighthouse, to be there on that very day at that very moment...

But it was only the night before and I do remember there was an offshore flow warming the air outside on the balcony. One of the most beautiful times of the year in Santa Cruz is the month of October, at least during the years I've lived here, and especially the first one.

I had noticed her for weeks on the beach. Always alone, as was I. She was usually reading, always wearing a baseball cap, and always looking, well, quite lovely in whatever bathing suit she wore on any particular day.

But it was only the night before and I wasn't thinking of her. I was thinking of the wreck my life had become, how I had rammed myself against the rocky shore and then crawled onto the beach fearful, yet smiling.

Then it was the next day, October 11, 1997, on the beach, when we finally met.

I usually get the words wrong, but our lover lore recounts the fact that the Mama walked up to me and asked:

"So, do you always come here alone?"

And like a fool, I almost didn't answer her; I wanted to be alone actually.

But then, "Yes, I do. And you?"

Six years later we were married, on the same date. Five years after that we started a family.

On the night before the rest of my life, I never imagined how happy I'd B.

Happy Anniversary, Mama. I love you.

Happy Valentine's Day, Hot Stuff

This morning I hugged Mama and whispered in her ear:

"I love me."

Wow. Daddy's still the selfish romantic after all these years...

*sigh*

For those of you significant others with kids, you know what I mean about what it takes to keep the fire stoked over any length of time -- a day, a week, a month, going on 14 years...

But take it from me, if you want love to remain, you'll pay the love piper and not count the cost, because nothing says nothing like a love grown cold.

And it really isn't that much work when you dig the other every day.

I remember when I had a painting commissioned on behalf of my love for Mama, long before she was the Mama (shortly after we met). It was based on a poem I had written her:

Sketch Pad

I trace neck
curves to belly dip bottom rise,
your back to my front in summer evening glow
as dim dusk light drains out your window.
You moan thin
gasp through full mouth eyes shut away,
love scent chants our sides with blanket trance
as cool night breeze slips in your window,
we draw the other in.

I'm telling you, after all these years and two gorgeous little girls later, through thick and thin and from sugar-daddy thriving to day-to-day dollar thimble diving, you've got to remain entwined heat.

Happy Valentine's Day, Hot Stuff.

The catalyst of cause to action

An old friend told me she was happy I had a girl so as to be more sensitive to women’s issues.

That’s probably true, although I think it’s more about changing our minds and deciding to have a child. And hearing that my abusive birth father was dying of lung cancer.

I’ve lived the majority of my life abhorring violence, particularly violence against women and children; that’s what I grew up with. Unfortunately I participated in my own share of emotional abuse back in the day and am not proud of those unsettling moments.

However, I never made abuse of any kind my personal cause. It was just something I didn’t like, shaking my head at the tragedies reported by the media, maybe vocalizing my distaste to my wife, a family member or a friend.

It’s different now. Having a child is the catalyst of cause to action. I hold my daughter and I remember what my mother, sister and me went through all those years ago. I recall the pain I caused others all those years ago. That’s why I participated in The Human Race and will continue to do more.

We all have a choice and sometimes all we need is a catalyst. People can change for the better. Cycles of violence can be broken. We can be personally responsible.

Last month I listened to a Bill Moyer interview with Marta Peláez, president and CEO of Family Violence Prevention Services, Inc.

The interview was quite informative and disturbing as well, but one thing in particular that caught my ear was the discussion of her intervention services for the abusers themselves.

You don’t hear much about that, how some organizations work with the abusers to get them to understand they have a choice, that they can walk away from hitting and hurting, resolve their anger issues in other ways.

I was happy to hear that the Obama administration and Congress approved a funding package increases support for key programs that help to prevent domestic violence and support victims – nearly $70 million in increases for effective programs related to domestic violence, a tremendous accomplishment to help end against domestic violence. The bill includes more than $15 million in increases for the Violence Against Women Act, a $45 million increase for the Victims of Crime Act, and a $5.1 million increase for the Family Violence Prevention and Services Act. Following last year's cuts, the bill restores funding levels to those of previous years.

Thank God there are these resources. We all have choices. People can change for the better. Cycles of violence can be broken. We can be personally responsible.

What’s your catalyst of cause to action?

Daddy K sets up a TotSpot account

Mama A and I are social folk, but I'm the social animal. I'm the one who links in and tweets and blogs and toots. Wait, forget about the last one. Please.

And although Amy's been good about letting me rant and coo over the sound of my own voice, we have had serious talks about what we're willing to post for the world once Baby B comes into the world.

Which will be sometime in the fall of 2012.

I have a lot of faith in the goodness of the virtual world around me, and to date I haven't experienced any creepy folk hanging around our blog, but I certainly respect my wife's concerns.

The guys at DadLabs were also talking about it recently and I wrote:

Great question and one I'm thinking more and more about. As it stands now I launched a blog for God and the world to view about our pregnancy and other related "be positive about life rants", and I used my last name (although not others) and the city we live in and have shared many photos. I've been accused of loving the sound of my own writing and writhing, but then again I like to share. My wife is somewhat concerned at times of how much I share online but loves the fact I like to share. My feeling is that I want to be part of the larger conversation, a virtual parents group and beyond of one who spreads the gospel of personal responsibility and taking care of business, family, community.

Yes, the world can be a dangerous place; that's not the world I want to live in. Even in this cool forum at DadLabs, there could be freaks waiting to pounce. (Have you seen the DarknesstoLight.org campaign? I get it but Christ almighty.) I was abused as a child but I'm not hanging my hat on that to be afraid or paranoid for my family or my child.

That all being said, there is a new online service called TotSpot for families to securely share their children's lives and photos.

For now I'm going to continue to share on my blog and in forums such as this. I'd rather feel the love if you know what I mean.

As mentioned above, I've known about a secure parent-child social networking service called TotSpot for a few months and just signed up for an account. Once B arrives, I'll use this service to share our child's life with our family and friends.

So while I'll still rant and coo about daddy-related issues and personal responsibility, I don't plan on sharing pics and video of Baby B on this blog.

Keeping it real and safe for the Bster and beyond. Can't wait to feel that love.

In the summer of 2015.

Daddy K does a double-take

So here we are still waiting for Baby B to arrive (maybe the full moon tonight will help), and when I catch up with my good friends at Nelson News, I find out they're pregnant with twins.

Twins mind you. I can't even get my kid out of the womb and their son will have two brothers or sisters.

Wow. We couldn't be more thrilled for them. Troy, fly over our house and honk.

Daddy K says, “That’s okay, that’s all right – stay in there and fight, fight, fight!”

One of the many informative online resources I've found for fathers (and mothers as well) is the National Responsible Fatherhood Clearinghouse. The "Take Time To Be A Dad" site is a better name, but c'mon, it's a service of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. Pro-marriage but not co-habitation, there is information in the site I question, but for the most part I've enjoyed perusing it.

Here are some depressing stats:

1. 24 million children (34 percent) live absent their biological father.

2. Nearly 20 million children (27 percent) live in single-parent homes.

3. 43 percent of first marriages dissolve within fifteen years; about 60 percent of divorcing couples have children; and approximately one million children each year experience the divorce of their parents.

Having loving, involved, personally responsible parents in a lifetime partnership is the key for change, biological or not, married or not.

And this video is one of the sweetest things I've ever seen. Love it.

(I played football in high school, but one year in the off season, I was a cheerleader for the girl's powder puff flag football team. Is there a problem?)

Daddy K daydream time travels about being an older parent

When I was a tween and teen and young adult, I would imagine where I'd be in the year 2000 – what I'd be doing, who I'd be with, where I'd live, what I'd look like. It was a fascinating mental exercise for me, causing my head to buzz with electricity, my mind awash in endorphins. (One of my good friends in college, who was considered to be somewhat of a clairvoyant and who sadly died from chemotherapy complications a year after we met, claimed that he saw me way in the future with silver hair and a beard, wearing glasses and smoking a pipe while sitting at a big mahogany desk. It was true I wanted to be a psychologist at the time. Sigmund Freud I'm not; a pipe dream is sometimes just a pipe dream. That's why I'm in marketing and PR!)

Daydream time travel has always been escapist therapy for me to "work things out". But unlike when I was younger and time was an open air amphitheater, the starry sky expanding before my eyes, now it's like Alice in Wonderland where time is a shrinking room collapsing around me.

When B turns sweet 16 (or handsome 16), I'll be 58 years old. When B graduates from college (on time of course), I'll be 64. You can see where I'm going with this.

The question is – do Amy and I worry about the fact we're older having children? Not really. I mean, yes, I imagine what it will be like, banking on the fact we'll be in pretty good shape mentally, emotionally and physically – along with having contingencies in place just in case. But no, we're not that worried about it at this point.

We're not the only parents having children at an older age. Most what to complete college and have careers established prior to having children. And then there are those like us who hadn't planned on kids but changed their minds.

Is it fair to B that its parents will be much older maybe than some of its friends' parents (I say "it" because I'm really trying not to be gender specific until we're holding B in our arms!)? Our parents and sisters had their children at half my age. And while I'm not going to discuss the socioeconomic implications of retiring baby boomers, lower birthrates and shrinking tax bases, I will say it's a hefty responsibility to have a child and something we do not take lightly.

According to an article I read recently:

Nationally, the U.S. Census report shows that more American women are skipping motherhood or are waiting longer to have children, a trend already evident in California, where birthrates to women in their 40s have tripled the past two decades.

So we're not alone in this trend. With the exception of an unchecked growing obesity rate in this country, many of my generation and older are healthier than previous generations, thus living longer. (And many may outlive their overweight children – get your butts moving people and get off the high-fructose corn syrup.)

I did find a quick list of pros and cons for having a child at an older age by Michael K. Meyerhoff, EdD:

There are a number of positive aspects to having a first child in midlife. There are also some drawbacks. First, the positives:

1. A new parent who is between 35 and 40 years of age has about 15 to 20 years of adult life experience and so has more inner resources to draw on in times of stress than does a younger parent.

2. Middle-aged parents are usually at the height of their earning power, so they have more financial stability to support a child.

3. Having had many experiences, many middle-aged adults are ready to be parents. They have a sense of identity -- the child will not have to provide them with it.

4. Having a first child in midlife provides a real sense of renewal.

5. Adults in midlife may have a deeper sense of the value of life itself, and so tend to place high value on the time they can spend with their children.

While many of the positive things about having a baby in midlife involve the joys of raising a small child, the drawbacks have mostly to do with the future and with the parents' concerns about aging:

1. Older parents may have lower energy levels. They may wonder if they will have the energy to be as active as their child needs them to be.

2. They wonder if they will live to see their child become an adult. Will they ever see their grandchildren? Will they very quickly become a burden to a child just as he is trying to get on his feet as a young adult?

3. When the age difference is 40 or more years, quite a schism is created; parents worry whether their values will be at all relevant to their child. The age difference may be particularly apparent when a child becomes a teenager -- a difficult period for even young parents to deal with.

The letter B: Daddy K’s laptop lament

Dear Baby B,

It's been a busy week and I didn't make time to blog. (I made time to talk to you and read to you, though!) I could have, one can always make time for things, but I didn't. No B, it's been another busy week in the glamorous world of hi-tech marketing and public relations – many new clients coming onboard soon. It's also been a busy baby week since last week's shower. What did you think of all those different vibes?

For the past month I've been experiencing computer problems, hi-tech hiccups that impact performance dramatically. And yesterday the blue screen of death as they affectionately call it (who's they, B?) hit me four times in less than two hours. You could say I was concerned.

But not stressed. In fact, I took the opportunity to reflect, call my folks and my nephew, and daydream of a life with you and Mama A. (Of course I had my hand iPhone to check e-mail and such. Who needs business productivity software when I've got the PhoneSaber?)

Not sure what I'll need to do with my laptop yet. However, I'm sure about love, forgiveness and acceptance.

What the heck does my computer problems have to do with love and forgiveness and acceptance? Work with me here, B.

I'm listening to a podcast from This American Life (a public radio series I highly recommend – if it's still around when you're old enough) about two babies switched at birth, and 43 years later the truth of what happens comes out and it's pretty heavy for both families (who knew each other).

The catch is that one of the mothers knew they took the wrong baby home, brought it to her husband's attention, an evangelical minister, and he told her that they shouldn't say anything as to not to disgrace their doctor.

Granted It was 1951, but still hard to believe. Forty-three years later when the truth was told, it was devastating for both families. I'm still listening to it so I don't know the conclusion yet and where the families are now.

Can you imagine? And what about our perception of the facts as presented to the listeners of the show? The show does do a really good job of revealing both sides of the stories, but stories, like us, are more multi-faceted than two-sided, so it's difficult to judge indiscriminately. Plus the fact we can be selfish in our evaluation of others, how we see them aligns with our world view and how close the person is to us. We delude ourselves into thinking our way is the only way (yes, we're guilty as well).

Your mama and I have been seen in different light over the years, and while it used to bother me more than it should, it fascinates me now. One of us controls the other, we don't' like each other's friends or family, we're selfish for not having children, we're selfish for having children, we're arrogant because we're happy - blah, blah, blah.

It's flatulent garbage that comes from the fear of the way we've chosen to live our lives – happy and direct and true to our hearts without secret or shame. We're a team and always have been. I've made mistakes just as she has and we're going to make them as parents as well.

However, there will be no switched-at-birth secrets for us, B. But you already know that, because that's why you're on your way. God's will is to be responsible and heal the heart and home, not to surrender and feed the fear and the foolhardy. It took a long time for me to get here, but I'm glad your mama waited for me by the sea...

That which you manifest is before you. You reap what you sow. Be mindful of each moment lived within and without. Not everyone has the emotional or spiritual capacity to feel these; there are multi-faceted reasons we'll never understand.

So B, after you strip away the day from a busy week and a broken laptop all you have left is love, forgiveness and acceptance.

I love you and will see you soon!

Daddy K

--

Well I guess we all have these feelings

We can't leave unreconciled

Some of them burned on our ceilings

Some of them learned as a child

The things that we're concealing

Will never let us grow

Time will do its healing

You've got to let it go

I find no absolution

In my rational point of view

Maybe some things are instinctive

But there's one thing you could do

You could try to understand me --

I could try to understand you...

--Neil Peart

Mama A is almost abducted; Daddy K has bay-dar

Is that a UFO landing behind Mama A and her niece Kimberly? Are the aliens abducting them?

No, it's one of the rides at this year's Monterey Bay Strawberry Festival at Watsonville. We went down to Target to buy some Baby B stuff and then walked over to the festival. It's the first time we've attended it since we've lived in Santa Cruz and it's about time. You can never eat enough strawberries and the Olympic athletes will be enjoying Watsonville strawberries as well. In fact until this year virtually no American produce has been imported by the Chinese as a result of long-standing trade barriers set up to protect local markets.

We need more strawberry shortcake to break down walls – and the The Art of Peace CD coming out this week. Olympics start in just four days!

We walked around the games first at the festival, and carnies rule. But what's the deal with the 10 different (yet the same) dart games? Throwing darts at balloons can be fun, but why so many when you've got tons of kids running around? Kids and darts don't mix.

Then we were off to all the food booths and funnel cake and strawberry shortcake were on the agenda. Good times.

As we get closer and closer to Baby B's arrival, my bay-dar cranks up even higher, and I find myself an alien anthropologist watching all the parents interact with their children. Someday we'll be taking B to all these fun local gigs and I'm trying to imagine what it'll be like.

So I Tweeted (which doesn't mean I tooted) we were at the strawberry festival. And lo, I received this reply, "Where are you?"

It was none other than one of my savvy PR team members – Adriana, her husband Scott and little boy Caleb.

Bay-dar enhanced by tweeting and pre-mindful parenting. Who knows where Web 2.0 will go.

Happy Birthday, Kimberly!

The A&K Files: How Dragonflies Fall

Sitting in Robby's backyard this hot summer weekend, I noticed some beautiful burnished orange dragonflies gliding in the warm wind. I was fascinated watching them; two adjoined with another smaller one floating right behind.

I know I've been accused of being a poet, but I ain't making this stuff up.

I watched them, thinking how two halves make two wholes, then three, mindful of their moments in the sun.

And then I remembered a poem I wrote…

Dragonflies Fall

As we walked inside a favorite well lit place,

I noticed them huddled together on bar stools

like vagrants sleeping in long winter alleys,

or teenagers parked on dark summer roads,

or dragonflies joined afloat in spring winds lift.

Their inner arms are somewhat interconnected,

caressing each other's necks and backs while

opposite elbows are pinned to the mahogany bar

for fear they might slip away from each other

through the cracks in the hardwood floor to be

reabsorbed by the aged earth where moments

are measured in millennia and all stories ever told.

They hold chilled pint glasses half-full of idealistic

afterthoughts, like safety lines from a cliff edge.

We order our beers, and I look at you and say,

"Dragonflies fall through the center of the earth

like burnished amber in fading autumn sunsets,"

then I stroke your cheek and kiss your warm lips

and you wonder what they think of, watching us

fall.

And now we fall as three, mindful of our presence in the sun.