A Poetic Place

"Oh, my music makes you dance
And gives your spirit to take a chance
And I wrote some rock 'n' roll so you can move
Music fills your heart, well, that's a real fine place to start
It's from me, it's for you
It's from you, it's from me
It's a worldwide symphony..."

–Barry Manilow, I Write the Songs

26 years later and here we are...

Months earlier, I remember seeing the social media ads and thinking, That's corny.

The service is Songfinch, a platform that allows you to choose a musical artist/songwriter and then provide content and stories for the musician to write you a song and record it for you. The end result is a special song for someone special in your life. 

So cool, I thought. And corny.

I kept kicking that musical idea down the road, thinking about it, and finally realizing it was the perfect anniversary gift from me to my wife, Amy.

Because we like corny love things. Our teen daughters know we like corny love things, too. Painfully so. 

While I've never forgotten our wedding anniversary (or the anniversary of when we met, which happens to be the same date), when I decided to have a song made for Amy, I couldn't help but think about one of favorite holiday movies, The Family Man. 

There's a part where the husband/father (Nicholas Cage), forgets his anniversary with his wife/mother (Téa Leoni), and then their young daughter (Makenzie Vega) commiserates with him.

Daughter: "I should have warned you. Dad always does something really special for the anniversary."            

Dad: "Like what?"

Daughter: "One year he had a star named after her."         

Dad: "He had a star named after her? Well, that's nice, but isn't that a little... corny?"        

Daughter: "Mom liked it."

And I knew Amy would like it, too. Flowers and jewelry haven't been our thing over the years. Instead, music and travel have been. At our wedding we gave away our curated list of songs in a CD we titled "A Lifetime With Happy". It included songs from Ambrosia, Jennifer Lopez, Phoebe Snow, Train, Lionel Richie, Journey, Little River Band, and many others. 

I've written Amy poetry over the years as well, and when I decided to have a song made for her, I compiled romantic highlights, pieces of my poetry, one of my favorite Rush songs called "The Speed of Love", and other life anecdotes. The Songfinch musician I picked is named Tommy P, and within a week he had written and recorded a song for me. After a few edits, it was done. And because I've been drumming now for three years, I wanted to drum to it for Amy. I didn't play the drums on the originally recording of course, but I thought it would be fun to do so. 

It's been 26 years since we met and 20 years of marriage. Early on in our relationship we were clear with each other that either we were all in, or we weren't. All in was our choice. It wasn't without work, though, and we also always knew that sometimes it doesn't work out. We grew up with divorce, I got a divorce myself, and early on with Amy and me, we were never going to put children through that, which was why we weren't going to have them. Until we changed our minds and did.

We've been celebrating our anniversary all week, and we want our daughters to understand that whatever relationships they end up having in their lives, they had to be all in and continuously reinvest in those relationships to make them work. To be all in, you have to be whole, because if it doesn't work, then it's not the end of world (even if it feels like it, which it will). Through it all, it should always be about loving yourself first and keeping your soul whole enough to share with another. That's what we've practiced over the years, a poetic place with spiritual grounding that elevates our love. To be grateful for our love for as long as we have it. 

So, having a song produced for Amy for our anniversary might've been a little corny, but if music fills your heart, well, that's a real fine place to start. (Thank you, Mr. Manilow.)

A Perennial Bloom

It was a lovely evening. The heat wave dissipated somewhat at sunset and a balmy ocean breeze washed over us all. We don't get many days like this in Santa Cruz during the year. One of the few heat bumps we can get usually comes in late September into October, even with all the drastic climate changes of late. It reminded my wife Amy and I of the late El Niño warmth when we met one day at the beach nearly 26 years ago on October 11, 1997. 

We were hungry but the food truck line moved slowly. We were there with our kids, Beatrice and Bryce, to enjoy the "Block Party on the Bluff" and new climate solution exhibits at the UC Santa Cruz Seymour Marine Discovery Center. We told our friends who met us there with their kids that this was where we were married nearly 20 years ago on October 11, 2003, six years after we met. The wedding ceremony was outside on the patio overlooking the ocean and then our reception was inside the main hall room. We'd been there with our kids since they were little many times since, and it never gets old reminiscing.

When we had decided to get married all those years ago, we wanted to do the wedding ourselves and find a reasonable venue on the water as close to where we met if possible. We had thought about having our ceremony literally on the beach where we met, but the logistics of that and then having the reception elsewhere weren't feasible at the time. There weren't a lot of options for what we wanted. The Seymour Center ended up being the best bet for us being right on the water. Plus, it had a small aquarium that our guests could visit prior to our wedding. 

We sat together at a picnic table with our friends and ate our yummy food truck pupusas. Darkness settled in and it felt amazing outside. It reminded us so much of how pleasant the weather was when we were married. Our friends who were with us didn't know us then, and it was still years away from us changing our minds to have kids. I gazed toward the patio and room where our wedding ceremony and reception were held and again remembered how special that day was. 

We had decorated the reception room ourselves with the help of some family and friends. We wanted to string lights overhead to convey a starry night. With only a few hours to go before the wedding, I was the only one in the room hanging the little white lights, or trying to hang them. Suddenly some of the lights stopped working and I couldn't figure out why or where. I kept fiddling with them, rearranging the strings, and at one point stood at the top of a wobbly ladder holding an extension cord in one hand and a string of lights in another, trying to plug them into each other, and I felt like Doc Brown on the clock tower from the movie Back to the Future. I'm lucky I didn't fall and break my neck, but the end result was lovely. 

And then there was our first dance together at the wedding reception, one that we had practiced and practiced to our wedding song, "The Biggest Part of Me" by Ambrosia. We put it together ourselves and it was such a special moment of loving movement that everyone there could share with us. 

Prior to all that, we were married overlooking the ocean by Amy's father. We had written our own vows, too, and reading them to each other solidified our loving commitment to each other that our two halves made two wholes. That we chose us. Every year since on our anniversary we go down to the water overlooking the beach where we met to read our vows to each other. 

I smiled at these anniversary memories as we finished eating and said goodbye to our friends. These memories, a perennial bloom, poetic place and déjà vu, are relived again and again this time of the year, and throughout the year. We headed home, and I was grateful that we share these memories with our daughters, that they know how deep our love roots grow, from beach to sea to our family. It may be a tad teen cringeworthy for them today, but they're grateful for our love nonetheless. 

To Keep The Heart Lights On

"If ever a man had it all
It would have to be me
And, oooh, I love you..."

–Climax Blues Band, I Love You

I listened to Roger Love speak about speaking. About voice and volume. About melody. About how all the things he shared with the audience, being a famous voice coach, can make us better communicators. 

Unfortunately I was tired from work travel, so I nodded off here and there. I heard most of what he said, though. About how important melody is and why we should pretend we are singing while you are speaking. We should move it around, shake it up, swoop, dive, soar, and let our voice be as interesting as we are.

Man, I needed melody in that moment. Feeling burnt out at work, unsure of the future as recession fears grow, and being far from home at a work conference called HR Inspire, I felt very uninspired and alone. After Roger was done speaking, another attendee struck up a conversation with me. Our spouses came up, and I said it was almost our 25th anniversary. Twenty-five years from the day we met, and 19 years from when we were married, on the same date. I also talked proudly of my daughters. He smiled and asked me what was so special about my wife, I said, "She's open and empathic and has such a loving heart. Our children have such a great role model." Then he asked, "What about you?" I smiled and winked, then said, "She's taught me well."

And while that was nice sharing about my wife and daughters, it also made me more miserable and homesick. After that, I wandered alone as the attendees left, many headed to the conference reception. The conference venue was Music City Center in Nashville, and music of all flavors was piped over the event center PA system. 

A familiar melody started to play, an old song I've always loved. One that reminded me of my wife. Lyrically it wasn't literal to our relationship, but it was close. The song was "I Love You" by Climax Blues Band, and it floored me. I sat alone in the lower lobby and tears welled in my eyes. 

I thought about that one day at the beach nearly 25 years ago, and more tears welled in my eyes. I've always been a hopeless romantic my whole life, although romanticizing our love hasn't needed much help; our melody has always been there. However, we've had relationship problems and painful moments of angst and anger, but we've learned to prioritize honesty, growth, intimacy, and love. And even after 25 years of love and growth, we're going through this book called The Love Prescription: Seven Days to More Intimacy, Connection, and Joy together.

I sat there and wiped the tears away. No matter how fried and uncertain I felt about my business and my work life, and how fearful I was about the future, all I had to do was think about these melodies: the love of my life and our children. That's more than enough love to keep the heart lights on. 

"Since then I never looked back

It's almost like living a dream

And, oooh, I love you..."

Probably Together Forever

"I don't like that you and Dad keep fighting," Beatrice said. 

Our oldest daughter stood there looking very concerned. If our youngest, Bryce, felt concerned as well, she didn't show it or say anything. She doesn't like conflict anyway; she usually makes herself small and withdrawals. 

"We're not fighting," my wife Amy said.

"Beatrice, we don't always agree, but we're not fighting," I said. 

"Yes, you are," Bea said.

"No, honey, we're not."

In reality there have only been a handful of times over 24 years together that Amy and I have really fought unhappily. Even having to leave the house to cool off. A couple of those times were in front of the girls. However, upwards of 40%-50% of marriages end in divorce, and the odds are, and have been, that our daughters will have friends whose parents split up. Temporarily or permanently. 

It's not something that they were aware of, or articulated, at younger ages. But now they're both painfully aware of parents who split up, whether that be from friends or family. They also know that I was married once before. When they first learned that years ago, Beatrice riddled me with questions. In fact, my parents were divorced and Amy's were, too. 

Amy wasn't married before, and from our first meeting to today, she's been the catalyst that keeps the priority of our love intact, and our willingness to do the work. It's not that I haven't made it a priority. I have. But I've also struggled a lot more with my past continuously affecting my present. The good news -- I don't think that I've ever been more psychologically and emotionally in place than today.

Of course there are reasons why people shouldn't stay together. If there is physical or emotional abuse for either person, safety should be the highest priority. My mother divorced twice due to excessive abuse at the hands of her spouse. And if someone is continuously unhappy, or both, for whatever reason, then that could be another reason for splitting up. 

Amy and I have always done the relationship work. The open and honest communication. The criticality of intimacy. The interconnections that come from compromise. The boundary setting with each other and others. The emotional and psychological investment in each other and in ourselves. The not going to bed angry. We've both committed to doing the work and we want to do the work. It's also work that's never-ending (which is why we love Brené Brown's work so much). It's not really hard work when you're all in, but is it never-ending. 

Also, when you're with someone for any length of time, again 24 years for us, there's a comfort in how well you know each other. There are a million inside jokes and catch phrases we've shared over the years that still bring a smile or a laugh. There's also a teasing banter we've developed over the years with one another that can sound like we're unhappy when we're really not. And when that overlaps into disagreements about any topic, the girls may misinterpret what's happening. 

We continue to impart on our daughters what it takes to keep a relationship thriving, when both people want it to thrive. We impart on them that disagreements are important to healthy relationships; we each have our own minds and spirits. Just like the line from our marriage vows and one of my favorite Rush songs The Speed of Love -- "where two halves make two wholes."

We are hopeful romantics who do the work. We also know that absolutes aren't realistic -- we will be together forever, for example. We'll be together as long as we both do the relationship work. Also, in the same spirit of jest we have with one another, when Beatrice asks if we're going to be together forever, we tell her -- probably together forever. She smirks at this. Hopefully one day they'll both find what we've found together. And in sense, within our own family love, they already have.

Epilogue

"I always see you guys kiss after you tease each other," said Bryce. "That's loving."

A Family That Just Happens To Be Human

"I have everything but I feel like nothing at all

There's no risky thing for a man who's determined to fall..."

–U2, You’re the Best Thing About Me

I thought it was the trigger. When she said, "What's it to you?" 

What my wife Amy said to me wasn't meant to be mean. A little ornery, but not purposefully mean. It was more defensive posturing based on what I said to her and our two girls. And yet, the moment quickly erupted with the heat of a roaring fire. 

It was just about taking baths, for God's sake. Our girls they take baths every day. Sometimes twice a day.

I do not. That's a lot of water and energy to heat the water every day. And after dinner every night when I'm doing the dishes and loading the dishwasher and the girls are taking their usual one bath per day, sometimes they run the hot water too much and I end up with lukewarm water to rinse the dishes with. That bugs me. 

On one level it's a dad thing, being concerned about water and power, although these regular baths haven't pushed up our water or power bills at all (heating my garage office with an electric heater actually does that).

So after dinner one night the two baths issue came up. I had already been complaining for a few weeks about losing hot water after dinner.

And that's when I said, "The girls cannot take two baths a day."

"Yes, we can!" the girls said together. 

Then Amy said, "What's it to you?"

Which was to me. Then I said, "Then you pay the bills, Amy!"

That outburst shocked Amy and the girls. Things escalated further with the f-word and pounding the table and yelling from both of us. Beatrice and Bryce looking surprised and a little scared. Although it wasn't the first time we've fought, we haven't had many of them over the years. Disagreements, yes, but heated fights, not so much. Even in the year of COVID-19 and stay-at-home orders and distance learning and everybody in the house all the time, not at all. Until now.

Thankfully I checked myself and used my own Kidpower version of "calm down power." I took a deep breath and just let it go. I understood that in these times of intense emotional triggers, the eruption duration leads to further escalation, and there's a split-second when the angry maw could consume us all. Amy told the girls to go upstairs and take their baths. As they quickly climbed the stairs, I apologized to Amy and even tried to joke that I should call Irene, the executive director and founder of Kidpower, and tell her I needed a remedial course on managing emotional triggers. 

Amy wanted to make sure there was nothing else bothering me. There wasn't. She apologized for her flippant response, and we apologized to each other for escalating the situation, which in reality was a non-situation. 

It wouldn't be until a few days later when I would realize the true trigger wasn't literally what she said, it was more about an ongoing issue for me (and many men) -- the false sense of being emasculated, to be made to feel weaker as a man for usually inane reasons. Patriarchy can be a soul sucker, that's for sure, and that combined with millions years of biology and my very own blue genes, it's a super soul sucker. 

But the beauty of this breakdown is that I was again reminded that I'm married to a loving and strong, emboldened and empathic, independent and interdependent, human being, who just happens to be female. 

That I'm a father of two loving and strong, emboldened and empathic, independent and interdependent, human beings, who just happen to be females. 

That I'm a loving and strong, emboldened and empathic, independent and interdependent, human being, who just happens to be male. 

When the girls came down from their baths, I apologized to them both for how I had acted.

"It's okay, Dad," Bea said.

"Did you call Irene at Kidpower?" Bryce said.

I laughed. "You heard that? Ha! That's funny, Bryce."

"Well, did you?"

I laughed again. "I love you both."

"We love you too, Dad." 

And there it was, another mindful #BhivePower moment in another New Year, and a reminder we're a family that just happens to be human. 

"You're the best thing about me
The best thing that ever happened a boy
You're the best thing about me
I'm the kind of trouble that you enjoy
You're the best thing about me
The best things are easy to destroy
You're the best thing about me
The best thing about me..."

–U2, You’re the Best Thing About Me

All Because of One Day at the Beach

"Somehow we found each other

Somehow we have stayed

In a state of grace..."

–Rush, Ghost of a Chance

Picture by my friend Doug Ross

I never remember our exact exchange, but the visceral memory of that moment is permanently etched in my mind and my heart. 

"What did you say to me again? 'So, do you always come here alone?'"

It's the morning of our 23rd anniversary of when we met. 

"No, Sweetie, I asked, 'Why are you always here alone?,'" my wife Amy says and smiles. 

"Right," I say. "I always remember it differently." 

"Oh, it's your anniversary? Happy Anniversary," says Bryce our youngest. 

"Happy anniversary," says Beatrice our oldest.

"Why does your anniversary have to be on a Sunday?" asks Bryce.

"Because that's where the date fell this year," Amy says. 

"Oh."

"Thank you both. That's why we went to the water yesterday, to read our vows," I say.

"Oh."

Kids, I think. 

The day before our anniversary we did go to the water to read our wedding vows, something we do every year (our wedding date being on the same day when we met, just six years later). Some of the parking lots near the lighthouse and close to the beach where we met are closed due to COVID-19, and the ones that are open are always full. We parked down the street and walked toward the beach where we met all those years ago. Beatrice rode her skateboard, Bryce had on her roller blades and we had our dog Jenny in tow. 

It was a lovely afternoon as it usually is in October where we live. Windier than usual, but still lovely. The girls sat on a bench as we looked out over the beach where we met October 11, 1997. The waves kept time with our vows and the sun lit up the sea...

Amy and I had been coming there alone for weeks during that El Niño late summer into October. The weather was beautiful and the ocean much warmer than usual. I'd hang out closer to the water and write in my journal, and Amy would sit in her orange beach chair against the cliff wall. I noticed her the first time I went down to the beach, shortly after I had moved to Santa Cruz, but never approached her. I was in the early stages of a separation that would ultimately lead to divorce (something that would challenge our relationship early on), and had no interest in approaching her, or anyone at that time.

Then one day I looked up from my journal and there were two sun-tanned legs in front of me. I looked up higher, and there she was, awash in sunshine, wearing a two-piece bathing suit and a baseball hat. She was so beautiful (still is), and it was the baseball hat that actually wowed me more than the suit (okay, a close second). I had never known a woman who could wear a baseball hat so well. 

"Why are you always here alone?" she asked me.

Every time I think of that moment, I remember not responding immediately. Not because I didn't want to respond. I just wasn't sure how to. Her question was confident and direct, and at that time, I wasn't so confident and direct, and again, wanted to be alone. Seconds passed. Whatever strange and exciting connection I felt in that moment was already slipping away. The weight in her legs shifted, indicating she was about to walk away. The universe taunted me and my silence. C'mon, Kevin, I thought. You'd better saying something.

"What exactly did I say to you again in response?" I ask Amy.

"'Because I like to,'" she says.

"That's really what I said?"

"Yes, but you can make something up if you want," she says and smiles

"Ha. No, I want to get it right. But 'because I like to'? Subpar, Kevin."

"Well, that's what you said."

"I love you, Amy."

"I love you, too. Happy Anniversary."

That was only the beginning back then. Since then our journey has brought us to today, 23 years in the making. We've had some amazing experiences together, and travels, and had two daughters along the way. We've also had our own challenges, too, and throughout it all it's been a loving journey of forgiveness empowered by grace. We are grateful for each other and our family every single day, awash in love and hope, and we choose us, always. And all because of one day at the beach.

"There's a new sun arisin'

(In your eyes) I can see a new horizon

(Realize) That will keep me realizin'

You're the biggest part of me..."

–Ambrosia, Biggest Part of Me

Other "Days of Coronavirus" posts:

Awash in Love and Hope

The Building Blocks of Healthy Lives

The Part Where All Lives Matter

The Clarity Bridge for Homelessness

Stars to Shine

Loving Community Wide Shots Abound

A Foundation Worth Saving

This Hit-And-Run Thunderstorm

Help Prevent the Back-to-School Bullying

Memories Now and to Come

Especially Our Kids

This Old "No" Guy Jedi

Choose Eyes of Love

The Morning Work

We Shared Blue Genes

Agree to Disintegration

The Teacher Parade

All These Things Can Lead To Grace

Our Freedom Is Always Welcome

A Well of Strength

This Bad History

No Shirts, No Shoes, No Problem

The Iceberg Underneath

The Healing Hope We Can Give

Donate Your Date Nights and Help Feed Families

About All The Things

Dad, Our Family's Computer Guy

The Newest Normal

Where Our Troubles Are All The Same

This Is The Life

When There's Nowhere to Go

Jenny, Jenny, Who Can I Turn To

To Run for My Life with the Love of My Life

"Wake up
Run for your life with me
Wake up
Run for your life with me
In another perfect life
In another perfect light
We run
We run
We run..."

-Foo Fighters, Run

Wow. She actually told them. I knew we weren't hiding it from them, but it wasn't something to date that had come up in any context or conversation.

Until now.

I'm not even sure of the context actually; the Mama (what I lovingly call my wife) just said it out loud.

"You know, Daddy was married to someone before me."

Wow.

"What?!?" said Beatrice. Bryce just stared at me.

"Yes, he was, but they didn't have any children," said the Mama.

"What happened? Did she die?"

Kids, they simply say whatever comes into their amazing little heads.

"No," I answered. "She didn't die. We broke up and got divorced."

I knew they knew what that meant, going to school with other kids of divorce.

"Where is she now?" Bea asked.

"I don't know," I said.

"Are you guys going to break up?"

We laughed. "No, honey. We love each other and love you both."

"Okay. Love you, too."

"I can't believe you told them that," I then said to the Mama. But I wasn't mad, just surprised.

"Why not?"

I know, right? Why not. But what they don't know yet is that our life wasn't all romantic neat-and-clean happy endings. It's much messier than that. Overlapping with of failure and sorrow and poor choices and sometimes we have to be pushed really friggin' hard to get moving in the right direction.

They don't know that, 20 years ago, when the Mama and I were already seeing each other and very much in love, that I was only separated from my ex, not divorced yet. I knew then that I wasn't going back; I was done and very unhappy with me and the relationship I had with my soon to be ex, no matter how good of a person she was. And she was.

Instead, I wallowed in limbo, not willing to pull myself out of the self-loathing sludge and get on with life. I wanted to, but wasn't willing.

At least not until the Mama inspired me with a little fight or flight adrenaline. I had wanted her to go with me to meet my entire family for my sister's birthday, which just happened (and still happens) to be the day before Valentine's Day.

She went to work one day and left me a note in the apartment I had at the time, basically saying she wasn't going with me anywhere until you get your shit together and move on with your life if you want to be with me.

Damn straight. She had shared a lot more passionate words than that in making her case, which was crystal clear to me. And so I moved on with my life.

Wake up.
Run for your life with me.

For weeks since we told the girls about my past, the above song has been full-throttle volume in my head. Although not really a romantic song to say the least, the very essence of it struck me as representative of that moment in time, to stop feeling sorry for myself and get on with living and being me. To run for my life with the love of my life. With all the stumbles and skinned knees along the way.

In another perfect life
In another perfect light
We run...

"Ooooo, why do you guys have to kiss all the time?" said Bea.

"Because we love each other," said the Mama.

"Indeed we do," I said. "And we love you, too!"

Happy Valentine's Day!

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.

Celebrate the Wham-Bams and All in Between

"Time is passing by
I still want you
Crime is on the rise
I still want you
Climate change and debt
I still want you
Nuclear distress
I still want you
The Earth is heating up
I still want you
Hurricanes and floods
I still want you
Even more than I did before..."

—Brandon Flowers, Still Want You

And just like that, it's 18 years later. This is the part when you measure the magical moments against the realities of your life and a long-term relationship. From that moment of meeting the Mama one day at the beach...

...October 11, 1997. 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?"

Within a few weeks we were hopelessly in love...

....to now 18 years later celebrating my 50th birthday party with friends and family on the eve of our 18th anniversary of meeting one another and our 12th anniversary of marriage. In fact, we had the local iconic Surfing Magician perform for the kids and the adults at my party, but dammit, he couldn't make me 40 again. Sigh.

But he did combine two signed playing cards from me and the Mama into one. Right on. My sweet Mama Ace in the hole.

Nearly two decades, two children, a finally refinanced mortgage, a few careers and economic ebbs and flows, and multiple family dramas later -- here we are.

None of this makes our relationship any less romantic, however. Real life may not be as colorfully dramatic and sexy as a novel or a movie, although throughout the years have been peppered with manmade and natural disasters and illness and death and -- good God, tell me to stop.

But there's one thing I know for sure, that real life can be just as super hot for long-time lovers. For example, recently the Mama read to me one of those fun sidebars from one of her Oprah magazines (which I actually had to look through to find again for myself -- ugh):

Overrated Sex: All night long
Underrated Sex: Wham, bam, thank you, man!

Add up those wham bams and you've got one hot lovin' super nova. Through all the years and a few ups and downs that even we have had, intimacy it a critical priority. Early on we made it so and told each other if we ever strayed to never come home. Seriously. Flirtation is one thing, but infidelity is the ultimate killer and actually a symptom of something missing, maybe multiple things, usually passion and intimacy, so our recommendation is don't ever frickin' lose it if you believe in it and long to keep it.

Do whatever you have to do to make that whoopee. Growing up I remember catching my Grandpa grabbing my Grandma's behind and patting it gently as he whispered something in her ear, even after 60 years of marriage. I proudly carry on that tradition today.

Of course real life gets in the way of mutual desire, like a belligerent drunk buddy who steps on your foot and leans over you to hit on your girl sitting at the bar next to you. You sulk away to the bathroom nurse the foot and the ego, and when you recover, you're either too tired or too stressed or too busy or too --

The Mama and I experience all this, but we want make it all work and keep the love simmering to a boil. Later today we'll go down to the place we met on the beach all those years ago and read our wedding vows to each other. It's a way for us to honor our love for one another, a reminder that two halves can and do make two wholes, a loving family, a continuous adventure and being the omniscient narrators of our own Rom-Com movie that goes on and on and on and on.

That's why you should always celebrate the wham-bams and all in between. Always.

Happy Anniversary Hot Stuff.

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.

The Truth About Manning Up

“Love is born with solar flares
From two magnetic poles
It moves towards a higher plane
Where two halves make two wholes…”

–Neil Peart

Early in 1998, she left a clear directive: I want to be with you, but take care of your business, or I'm out.

It was more heartfelt and elegant than that of course, but I remember distinctly how they made me feel as I read her letter while overlooking the Pacific: like a matter-of-fact slap, one that was a long time coming, one that left a chilling burn. The wind cold, the sea cold, my heart a cold rock released from its cliff mooring to sink below the unsettled surface.

I stood in the same place that more than a half a year earlier I'd stood when I realized this was the place I'd live, only months later to meet the Mama on the beach in October 1997.

Then on to early '98 again and slipping below the surface, when the reality of my unfinished past life haunted us both. Separated, but not yet divorced, still tethered to a unhappy life I no longer wanted (and would still take a few years to unravel from), it was time to reconcile my life at that point, to man up and take care of business so the future Mama and me could have a happy life.

And we did; and we do. But I have always had time with happy, and I still sometimes allow myself to be released from my cliff mooring, the unforgiving gravity skewed by my misunderstanding of what manning up really means. 

In the above context it just means taking responsibility of one's life, of the things we have control over and can change for the better. When we do, it's freeing, uplifting, Zen-like, slowing the natural erosion of things to an imperceptible crawl.

Then there's the context of social mores and traditional, gender-specific roles that we've grown up with. Unfortunately it's the old-fashioned "manning up" ones that I get caught up in much more so than the pragmagical Mama. We're pretty together people overall, but we're still fallible and breakdown once and a while, and I for one am haunted by self-inflicted emasculation.

Take for example when our friggin' dishwasher broke recently. At least, we thought it was broken. Water wasn't spraying inside. We had no idea why. We did have it serviced a couple of years ago and decided that now that it was almost 10 years old, we'd buy a new one. But then the Mama thought we should just have it fixed again. I still thought we should buy one. Then I thought we should get it fixed, and then she thought we should buy a new one. Then we were both on board with buying a new one, the Mama researching new ones and delivery and installation costs.

I thought that was that, but that wasn't it. The Mama watched a YouTube video about what might be wrong with the dishwasher and then proceeded to fix it. And fix it she did. It worked like a champ. Too bad I couldn't say the same for myself. 

Instead of celebrating the fact that she saved us hundreds of dollars, I got frustrated, Daddy Goat Gruff style. I gave her a hard time the whole time by suggesting we should just buy the new one, and what happens if it breaks again, and what happens if it leaks water all over the kitchen. I was basically a dick, true to my gentrified chromosomal heritage.

This wasn't the first time I've acted this way when the Mama enlists her economical pragmatic magic. The struggle for me is the fact that I feel like I'm "manning down" when I don't get to the fix first, when I'm not taking care of business for her and the family. It makes no never mind to the Mama as long as somebody does. Not because I'm a man and she's a woman. Just because it gets done. 

There are things I've never cared to know about and don't ever care to learn about today. Things I don't care ever to invest the time to understand how they work and how I might fix them. I'd rather find someone who knows how to do it and pay them to do it. The Mama on the other hand prides herself in saving a dollar by trying to learn how to do it herself.

And that's okay either way when you "man up" to make it work. Since our beginning we strived to embrace each other with open arms, while arming each other with life skills to thrive together. We wrote our own vows based on mutual respect, but we were never about two becoming one, we were all about two halves that make two wholes, reveling in our individuality and differences just as much as our shared values.

As it was. As it is. As it always should B.

It's Your Birthday, Baby, So Let's Dance

Sometimes spontaneity sputters and burns with the white hot flame of a mindfully present love.

And those can be the best of times.

It's not a indictment on what doesn't happen day after day in a long-term relationship, complete with kids. The Mama and I love each other no matter what and through it all -- whatever "no matter what" and "it all" bring. The girls are our world and we wouldn't have it any other way.

The "romance" may not be as regular as in olden days before children (which was years in the making), but there is romance, alive and well, usually semi-scheduled but always enjoyable. (You big kids with kids know what I mean.)

And then there's the spontaneity, so precious and memorable that even the seemingly simplest of actions light up the memory centers of head and heart.

We took the Mama's mom out for her birthday a few weeks ago just before Valentine's Day, and one of the first stops we made was at a local winery. In the middle of our tasting, a mixed gender barbershop quartet appeared and entertained all us tasters with some classic a capella. Then they fired up some sweet 1950's doo-wop and that's what sparked the white flame.

The Mama called me out from the bar and we danced a little swing and a little traditional hustle, at least the moves we remember from our dance lessons years ago.

But remember them we did. Dancing with her in that moment was delightful, just as it was the day I married her, when we actually made up our own dance, years before the lessons.

Who says that an old married couple with kids can't cut a rug? We don't, and neither do our girls. We've got a colorful disco ball in the living that we light up for B-hive dance parties, birthdays and other special family occasions.

It's your birthday, Baby, so let's dance.

"I wanna with rock you, yeah, all night..."

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.

This life's screening that we live in love

When a day

at the beach

a lucky 13

years ago

spliced with

the present

family love

of two girls

pixelated

across our

star-struck eyes

with B-rolls

precious dailies

and stills each

in a moment

we hum daily

the title track

"gettin' better

as we're older"

holding hands

at this life's

screening

that we live

in love

because

we choose

all of us

always

~Happy Anniversary Sweet Mama Love