That Safe Space

They were not looking forward to it, their first day back to school. That's not unusual for any teen pre- or post-covid, although there's been more collective angst since. Social anxiety, peer pressure, success stress, homework, and more are all pile-ons for teens, and our youngest Bryce is now an 8th grader and our oldest Beatrice a sophomore in high school. 

It was an internal emotional hurricane for both our kids those first two days of school, but then came the eye of the storm in the first full week of school, and both settled in nicely. Ultimately they both do enjoy learning, and seeing their friends, and getting back into the atmospheric rivers of adolescent rhythms, always with storm-fronts in view. They got themselves organized, though, and are ready to go. Plus, we're super happy they're back in school!

Bryce attended a marine science camp and took guitar lessons over the summer and is ready to get back into choir and theater again. Beatrice had her first paid job as a camp counselor over the summer and volunteered as what's called Link Leader, sophomore, junior, and senior students willing to help incoming freshmen get acclimated to the big high school sea change prior to day one. She's also going to try out theater this fall for the high school production. 

Oh my goodness, they're both about to have birthdays, too! Bryce will turn 14 and Beatrice 16. Mercy me, the time does fly as we were told from the very beginning of this parenting journey. I told my wife Amy on our hike today that, while it does go fast, we are so grateful to have been mindfully present for most of the moments our children have spent on this earth since birth. Entrenched in our hearts and minds have been the moments of every physical action and reaction, and every multi-faceted emotional interaction. Some have more loving clarity than others, and there are those we would prefer not to recall, but we are grateful for them all.

Sigh. Lots more moments to come to be present for, and now they're back to school again, amen. And the homework, especially in high school, is already piling on, just like all the social anxiety, peer pressure, success stress, and more in teenage-land today. As parents, we do our best to help them balance all these stressors, but we can't do it for them, or go through it for them, no matter how much our empathy magnets polarize to pull them in to calm them, keep them safe, and to tell them everything's going to be okay. 

All we can do is give them the growing up strategies and tactics that we learned to adopt and implement over time. Some of that came from our own parents, but in the end we had to go through it all to make mistakes, learn, grow, and ultimately thrive. Just like our teens will have to do today, and the next day, and the next. As my mom always told me, you have to go through it, not around it. As parents, we can be that safe space for them when then do.

The Part Where All Lives Matter

The meme is militant. It's angry. It's resentful. It's disrespectful. It's patriarchal and patronizing. And so many people love it. Probably because it represents how so many people feel about their own lives growing up and the next generation's fighting against this norm. It echos that sheriff's sentiment about how we've grown into a mouthy, mobile phone wielding, vulgar, uncivil society.

The Roman Empire talked about their younger generations this way (sans the cell phones, of course). Many societies throughout history have. Americans have talked this way about their younger generations since, well, the beginning. Closer to home for those of us alive for the past 50+ years, we did the same thing in the 1960's. And the 1970's. And the 1980's. And the 1990's. And the 2000's. 

And today. The meme I'm referring to is supposed to be shared in the "classroom", in-person or virtual I assume, although the intention is much broader than that. It includes these bits of brutal patriarchal wisdom:

• Being told "no" is part of life. Get over it.
• Life is not fair.
• You are not the boss.
• The world does not revolve around you. 
• The world owes you nothing. Work for it.
• You put yourself here. You need to fix you.

This isn't the entire list either. I admit, I've repeated shades of some of these things to our daughters, just not this exact verbiage. My wife and I really try not to say these things in these ways, because they don't account for our daughter's emotional well-being, or ours for that matter. 

Yes, emotional well-being. It's how we can manage the day-to-day onslaught of life, especially this year with the pandemic, the economic devastation, the layoffs and furloughs, distance learning for our kids, the social and racial inequity injustice, fires and hurricanes and more. Granted, the perception of fairness in life is subjective, and there are those who have the proverbial cards stacked against them more than others. No matter what, though, we need to focus on our emotional well-being, and help our children do the same. To empathize with others. To learn how to be personal responsible for our behavior and to be safe in all our relationships. Everyone should be entitled to these.

Why would we want to continue to say the above things to our children, though? At any age? What exactly does that accomplish? Why do we continue to equate shaming, fear and loathing to positive discipline? They couldn't be farther apart in what they actually address and how they impact kids and adults. Positive discipline is how we teach our children important social and life skills that encourages mutual respect for every life stage. Not saying "get over it" because "life isn't fair." That's bullshit and sustains the hate cycle we certainly are rapidly spinning out of control in today. 

And by the way, what if your child is bullied, harassed or sexually assaulted? 

You put yourself here. You need to fix you. 

Mercy me, if my parents would have treated me this way with all the things I went through, who knows what kind of shape I'd be in today. I don't think I'd be married to my lovely wife or have two amazing daughters, that's for sure. I probably would've ended up like Jerry, my birth father, an abusive, womanizing alcoholic. Thankfully my parents didn't, and I didn't either. 

We also keep confusing entitlement with coming of age in today's highly judgmental and polarized culture, trying desperately to understand what's right and wrong and questioning the status quo when it adversely affects ourselves and others in our society. We shame little boys for wearing masks and we still shame little girls from speaking up -- and by God, our girls will always speak up. We shame people who peacefully protest injustice and intolerance. We boo people of all colors linking arms at a football during a moment of unity the night before the anniversary of 9/11. Jesus Christ, what have we become?

Now, if the above statements are really talking about trouble-makers and law breakers of yesterday, today and tomorrow, I would still say they're brutal and unnecessary. I certainly don't approve or excuse lawless destruction we're seeing today, but now I know better than ever why the "the world does not revolve around you" sentiment is still so prolific. 

We think of our societal problems through such a limiting biased lens. Through extremes played out in politics, the news media and social media memes. But our biases are driven by so many more every day moments; it's about the everyday indignities we experience, and the ones we unabashedly pummel others with. That is something Leeno Karumanchery, PhD, one of the speakers we had at my organization's last virtual conference, shared with the attendees in the context of how racism and sexism are perpetuated. 

But it actually applies to all things and all lives and I just can't get it our of my head. Because it's so true, and these things we continue to say to each other, to our children, the shaming and belittling have made it nearly incapable for us to come together on anything. 

This morning when my wife and I meditated, the mantra was I am compassion -- Karuna Hum. The centering thought was, when I have no judgment, I see everyone with kindness. Ephesians 4:32 says, Be kind and compassionate to one another, forgiving each other, just as in Christ God forgave you.

This is the part where all lives matter. Where all of us can learn empathy and compassion for one another, to really listen and understand the everyday indignities we experience and perpetuate. So that we may undo these indignities, one at a time, and our children will learn in kind. Supreme Court Justice, Ruth Bader Ginsburg, who passed away last week, had said, "Real change, enduring change, happens one step at a time."

Amen. Here we go. 

Other "Days of Coronavirus" posts:

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

All in at 11

Driving behind the FedEx truck, I pushed and pulled inside the moment, but stayed inside it. I knew I had to make it to Best Buy within 10 minutes, grinding bumper to bumper on Highway 1 -- stop start, stop start -- brake lights glaring red. The Mama, what I lovingly call my wife, told me I wouldn't make it there and back in time to pick up Beatrice after band, but I told her I was sure of it. 

And so I stayed in the moment driving, leveraging the meditation we've been doing, not getting stressed out or worried, knowing that I would make it. I stayed in the moment, but explored the boundaries of it, letting my daydreams fill it with a big volume of recent change. 

Turning up the volume, actually. I think I'd used that expression with other parents dozens of times since this school year began for our daughters. Probably dozens of times in single conversations, with the same parents concurring. Like turning the amp volume up to 11 for those familiar with the comedy This Is Spinal Tap -- going above and beyond what's expected, when you didn't really believe that level existed, or want to believe it existed.

Dear God, now we know it does. 

And it's all stuff we've all signed up for and that both girls have wanted to do -- soccer, theater class, school band -- and more to come. That's not including all the stuff we're doing as the parents as well, in the context of school involvement, community involvement and ever-expanding work (which I so thankful we have). From the first day of school in August the volume has been cranked to 11 for friggin' sure. 

This isn't a pat on the back moment, though. Every day I reach trembling for the volume knob to turn it down. I stop short, hand shaking a little while hovering over it, and then take a deep breath and pull it back. 

I can't turn it down, though; we're all in. We don't get it all right, but we're all in. We knew that from the moment we decided to have Beatrice. We knew it even before that, but it was having children that solidified it.

Five minutes out from Best Buy, the ever-expanding moment moved on to how our girls are growing up. The years of Daddy taking family pictures unchecked were finally recently checked. And it was because of one goofy picture I took of Beatrice with Bryce. She said she didn't want me to post pictures like that anymore and set a boundary that I check with her from now on before I post any pictures of her. Then her younger sister Bryce echoed this request while out with me and the Mama and Beatrice was at an overnight birthday slumber part with friends. 

Bryce wanted a girls' night out with Mama and decided Daddy could go, too. We went out to eat and I asked her:

"Bryce, can I take a picture of us for girls' night?"

"No."

"Really?"

"No."

Sigh.

She was never as into the pictures as much as her older sister was, but now they just keep growing up, faster and faster and faster, with moments that get louder and louder and louder...

My ever-expansive bubble moment held with resilient elasticity and I made it with two minutes to spare in picking up Beatrice after band practice. As we drove home, I asked her about her day. Her voice, already full of pre-tween inflection, bounced off her own inner walls and my eardrums. I may be taking fewer literal pictures of them both from now on, but we're all in at 11 now, and the volume of moments like these will forever ring in our eyes and ears.

Rock on, #BhivePower.

One Simple Yet Powerful Thing

"Everybody got mixed feelings

About the function and the form

Everybody got to deviate

From the norm..."

–Rush, Vital Signs

I could tell she was nervous, talking about everything else except her first game. As we drove to her first game, I thought about the fact that this time I wasn't going to be her coach, the first time in three years. This time I'd be her little sister's coach and our first game wasn't until the next weekend.

This time I was just Dad taking Daughter to her soccer game. As we drove, I thought about how far she'd come in four years of playing and how much she really enjoyed the game.

Go number 7 go, I thought.

I finally had to ask her. "Are you excited about the game today?"

"Yeah," she said. Her tone obviously on the fence.

We drove a few more minutes and then she said, "I'm worried I'm going to make mistakes."

I couldn't help but smile, because as she's gotten older, her self-awareness has awoken and the standard normalcy of this moment could've been captured in a Hallmark card; taking a page right out of the Parenting 101 handbook.

Except, deep down, I knew my response would have to be tempered and kept to the handbook, as the truth to her statement had much more complexity to it. Something that would take years to fully develop, to be able to deal with the many mistakes to come. The mistakes that cause us to sometimes trip over uncertainly into brooding fits and staggering starts, a norm many of us know all too well. Or not. Or somewhere in between. As long as she and her sister always learn to own it in their own ways; to own them and live positively through them; to stay ahead of the doubt and design their own learning curves (with the help and support from us and others along the way).

But Bea's on the cusp of turning 10, so those growing-pain conversations were at least a few years away. I went back to the Hallmark card instead. Ain't nothing wrong with that.

"And that's okay, Beatrice," I said. "We all make mistakes. Without mistakes we don't learn what works and what doesn't and how to do better next time."

"Yeah," she said, still unconvinced.

A minute later.

"I just don't want to make mistakes."

The rest of the way to the game we talked about making mistakes and to keep moving no matter what. She seemed to listen, and nod, and then as soon as we got there she ran enthusiastically to join her team on the field. They played hard on the first game of the season -- mistakes were made and fun was had. When it was over, I took Beatrice out for dinner (the Mama, what I lovingly call my wife, and our other daughter Bryce, were both at the game for most of it and then Bryce had a birthday part to go to).

That night we finished reading one of the Wimpy Kid books together before bedtime. The main character, Greg Heffley, is always making mistakes, and Beatrice acknowledged that by another statement of awareness.

"It's okay. I make mistakes all the time, too."

"And that's okay; we all make mistakes," said the Mama.

"Again, it's what we learn from them in the end what matters the most," I said.

"I know," Bea said.

When it was time to go to sleep, I looked down at Beatrice and wanted to say something reassuring to her, something pithy and encouraging about how we're all uniquely strong and learn how to overcome mistakes in our own ways that lead to positive growth. And then all my own mistakes throughout my lifetime flashed before my very eyes. I realized the only thing that mattered in the moment was one simple yet powerful thing.

"Love you," I said, and kissed her on the forehead.

Why We Celebrate Our Crazy Little Thing

“This thing (this thing)
Called love (called love)
It cries (like a baby)
In a cradle all night
It swings (woo woo)
It jives (woo woo)
It shakes all over like a jelly fish
I kinda like it
Crazy little thing called love…”

—Queen, Crazy Little Thing Called Love

I didn't really get it until days later. Yes, it was our Valentine's Day family date afternoon/night, and we did spend quality time together as a family, for the most part.

First, the girls and I needed to get our flu shots, being overdue in that department and still in the throes of flu season. Plus, I'm going to be traveling again soon, and will be exposed to all sorts of bugs Americana. The Mama (what I lovingly call my wife) had already gotten hers months earlier since she works in physical therapy and helps older, more susceptible patients who live in assisted-living facilities and also those who have home health care.

Kaiser Permanente is new to our area and now has a downtown office in Santa Cruz, so that's where we went for our flu shots. We switched to Kaiser recently due to the rising costs of health care for families (don't get me started) and the fact that their services are more reasonable (by far and so far) compared to what we had (which had increased by over 25%), along with us having Direct Primary Care, all of which is a whole other Get Off The Ground article for another time.

The shots didn't take very long -- I went first, and then Beatrice, and then Bryce -- but before the nurse practitioner had the needle ready and poised for Bryce's arm, Bryce erupted in tears. She's never been a fan of the shots. Who is, right? She cried and shook her head and said she didn't want the shot and cried and shook her head.

We all told her it would be a quick pinch, but she just kept crying and shaking her head while the Mama held her. Finally she stood still enough for the nurse to give her the shot, and then Bryce wailed and cried even louder. The nurse left and came back in with rubber duckies for both girls and that perked Bryce up.

Then we were off to Bookshop Santa Cruz to buy books the girls had earned and for a Reading Flash Mob -- of which I had no idea what that was. Bookshop Santa Cruz has been an iconic community bookstore for over 50 years now. I came to learn that the reading flash mob was a gathering for kids and adults alike to come and literally read any book in the store for about an hour, whether purchased or not.

What I didn't know about the event (even though I'm sure the Mama told me more than once) was that the Live Like Coco Foundation, a Santa Cruz-based nonprofit, and the Santa Cruz Playground Project launched this series of “Reading Flash Mob” fundraisers to fund literacy panels at Leo’s Haven, the county’s first playground for children of all abilities.

And so we read for a great cause. Wait, two great causes. No, three great causes that included our own love of reading. We also found out that the Live Like Coco Foundation's executive director had a daughter named Coco who had died in a car crash at age 12. And so the foundation was founded to celebrate her spirit and for us all to "do good things" in our lives and in our community. Right on.

Out of all the amazing books at the bookstore, Bryce of course chose Dog Man Unleashed, another silly graphic novel series for kids from the creator of Captain Underpants (tra-la-la!). I read nearly the whole book to her during that inspirational hour while the Mama and Beatrice read to each other.

After that we were off to our family Valentine's Day dinner. All of us were hungry and we had a wonderful time -- until we didn't. Well, not the girls, the Mama and me. This is what happens sometimes in the adulting world. Life trips up your mindful happy along the way and fall flat on your fallible face. We both started worrying about our work and our commitments and the weeks aheads and all the other American crazy breaking down all around us, and then when one of us nearly dropped a plate at the end of the meal -- ka-boom.

We both got angry with each other unnecessarily and it deflated some of fun Valentine family we'd been having since the flu shots. For us at least, but thankfully not for the girls. The Mama and I survived the adulting fall and apologized, reminding each other that it's okay be get mad sometimes as long as we acknowledge it, own it and reconcile it. It still takes longer for me than the Mama, and yet we always get back to the heart of each other.

I didn't really get it until days later. Yes, a family bond is a crazy little thing called love, no matter how mad we may sometimes get with one another. And we will. And there will be more ka-booms between all of us as the girls get older. And more tears and shouts and laughter and love. And yet I cannot imagine, do not want to imagine, if any one of the ladies in my life -- these suns that rise in my heart each and every morning -- were gone.

This is why we stay in our moments as much as we can, hold fast to each one and each other, and celebrate our crazy little thing.

Where the Force Flows with Mindful Christmas Magic

Let's say the probability of any one of 10 total random park entrance lines moving faster than the others is around 10 percent. So we picked one, one that looked as though it fell into that 10 percent, just as we had done the day before. At first it felt as though we were right this time; our line moved along steadily as the families ahead of us enter the park. A winner! Then a mere seven feet from the turnstiles, we stopped, while the lines on either side of us almost seemed to speed up. 

Ah, the painful self-fulfilling prophetic physics of Murphy's Law. I realized at that very moment, even as Bryce flailed impatiently in the stroller and the Mama sought peaceful balance to keep Bryce balanced, that there was nothing I/we could do to change the outcome of waiting time to enter the park. Except wait.

During my epiphany, Bea simply skip-bounded back and forth in and around us as she often does when she keeps herself occupied. Or when she's in creative-thinking mode. Or when she has to go potty. Whatever her bounding represented this time, we still didn't move any closer to the entrance.

"What is going on?" the people behind us asked.

I sighed audibly. "Well, this happened to us yesterday, too. It feels like every time we get in line it shuts down production. Mercy me."

"Why didn't you warn us when we got in line?" they joked. And then continued to milk the joke, even when it wore as completely thin as Bryce's patience. I laughed a little unnaturally and turned away from them.

The reality is that the Disneyland entrance line slowed when visitors have entered the park for the first time for whatever their ultimate duration is. This is because their tickets have to be scanned, then park entrance cards printed out and signed, and then pictures taken for identification and park security.

And these seemingly random lines we were in for two days in a row included everyone entering the park for the first time. Granted, that included us on day one, but it made no never mind when we -- I mean I -- wanted to go inside and get my Star Wars freak on.

Again, there was nothing we could do to make the line move. So I stopped worrying about it. I just stood there, relaxed in the moment, and the moment after that, and the one after that, completely disconnected from the frustration of waiting and the longing for the happiest place on earth, and open to everything, and nothing, around me.

That's not to say I wasn't aware of my family's angst; I did encourage the girls to be patient and that we'd be in there soon enough. The Mama only had to adjust Bryce one time and both were fine otherwise (the Mama and I also realizing that there was nothing we could do, except go back to the hotel room, which wasn't really on the table unless we had to deploy the nuclear option).

Those minutes of waiting were a respite of sorts, quite counterintuitive to usual human behavior in the modern frenetic age. I was completely relaxed, primarily focused on my breathing -- in and out, in and out -- while all the sights and sounds around me slowed to a pleasant crawl, at just the right clarity and volume. It was as if we were at home in our cuddle chair (large recliner) watching our favorite movie without disruption or any notion of time constraints.

Of course I mean that metaphorically; watching families rock impatiently in Disneyland entrance lines isn't really a favorite movie of anyone's. However, the more I focused on relaxing in a meditative way, the greater pleasure I derived from just being. There. In the moment. Without negative attachments, or attachments of any kind. Just there with my family and being. Nothing else. A little peace on earth inside.

Metaphysically sappy, I know. But still, I've been consciously engaging in this lucid relaxation behavior of late, something I attempted in my emotionally torrid 20's, along with therapy and medication, all with limited, if any, success. Ever since I've done okay being mindful and present some of the time professionally and personally, and I do try to be empathic and compassionate as much as possible. Although I'm pretty pathetic when it comes to short-attention-span social media theater.

I'm sorry, what?!?

And then everything comes to a screeching halt when interrupted by my Daddy Goat Gruffness and the occasional just-plain-reactively-mean dickness.

I just finished the book by ABC Nightline anchor Dan Harris titled 10% Happier and I really enjoyed reading about his own tempestuous professional and personal journey toward being of sounder mind, body and spirit through meditation. I had seen him speak at the Achiever's ACE Conference in November, downloaded the book and never looked back.

But unlike Dan, I grew up grounded in the evangelical Christian faith and the real reason we have Christmas -- the birth of the loving redeemer, the little baby Jesus, Son of God (of which my affinity stands that my favorite Jesus is the little baby Jesus -- thank you Will Ferrell and Adam McKay, co-writers of Talladega Nights: The Ballad of Ricky Bobby). 

Even though I'm not writing this to derail or disparage anyone's belief in any religion or spiritual practice whatsoever, and I do not want to have a theological debate proving or disproving the existence of any God, I do believe in the power of prayer and a higher power, sans the prejudice, anger and fear. I strive for the power of positive thinking and action, and of empathic thinking and action, of mindfulness and action -- with the personal relationship of me and my God being synonymous with the personal relationship of me and myself and every one else in my life I've ever come into contact with and those I've yet to meet.

Yes, the Force is what binds all living creatures in the universe together. It's loving and forgiving and even protecting when need be. You know, like God. And how we can be. In life and in our relationships. What? You didn't see the Star Wars reference coming? C'mon. However you end up dealing with the dickness and the dark side in your own psyche, then learn how to deal with it. I sure as heck have been dealing with it.

Because later on that same day in Disneyland, I got so mad at the Mama just because she edged her way into a packed Main Street to watch the Christmas parade. Actually, she didn't really edge, because she did ask the people in front of us if the girls could slip into a little pocket to watch the coming parade. The people said sure, but then I had to fold up the stroller and hold it right under the rope that separated the free walk area and the parade attendance section. I got mad because I thought about all the other parents who had waited with their kids when we didn't, and the fact that I had to hold the friggin' stroller in a cramped area.

But again, the Mama wasn't rude. She asked nicely, there was room for the girls, and so it all worked out. There was no reason for me to attach any reactive meanness to the situation, but that's just what I did. I understood what I did and resolved it fairly quickly in my head and heart, not wanting to be mean to the Mama or anyone. That's something I've been working on for a long time, a continuous work in progress.

We ran into other Murphy's Law moments in Disneyland as well, but one in particular was the tipping point for me to dig deeper into my own psyche and mindful presence. I had gotten a fast pass for Hyperspace Mountain (a special time when I could get on the modified Space Mountain indoor roller coaster more quickly than the normal wait time). I then went to the ride Hyperspace Mountain at my specified time and the Mama and the girls went to ride It's a Small World.

My wait was brief and I worked on my relaxation during my time in line. My turn came and the ride moved me and my fellow space travelers upward and then zoom -- we were flying through space!

Until we weren't. An attendant came over the loudspeaker, barely audible over the ride's Star Wars soundtrack, telling us the ride was temporarily stopping. We then really stopped, the soundtrack stopped and the attendant's voice told us due to a problem with one of the riders falling out of a car (I'm sorry, what?!?), the ride was over and other attendants would be coming to escort us out of Hyperspace Mountain. We were at the very top of the dome, too. The lights when on and there we were trapped in the roller coaster cars in a large, very gray, nondescript industrial complex.

So much for the magic. But then another kinda epiphany hit me: the fact that my mind was a lot like this ride, a big loud noisy mouse-trap game of a ride, where the addictive goal was to get the metal ball from the top of the trap to the bathtub at the bottom, over and over and over again, without reason. Just because I've always done it that way. Lock and load and do it again. Because it's addictive, fun and safe.

As I sat in the car waiting to be escorted down, I prayed/meditated to empower myself with empathic action to counter my frenetically circular inaction, regardless of the fact that I have no control of anything that happens in this world, only how I may possibly influence it and ultimately react to it (or not react to it).

I prayed/meditated to shut down my maniacal machinery regularly with an unrivaled focal strength and be the effectual stretch. Meaning to stretch myself (and in turn others) to become more self-aware and learn new ways to see and understand life, and to expand beyond what’s known and comfortable in ways that produce desired yet diverse, highly personalized and usually effective results. This could mean the literal extremes of big success or failure, or those incremental leaps and lapses in between that give our daily journeys sustenance for mind, body and spirit.

I prayed/meditated to be a better husband, father, friend and world citizen (which is why I took a break from writing this article to play paper dolls with Bryce and check out Star Wars artwork from Beatrice). To not be a softie pacifist pushover, but to continue to be a more compassionate man of stalwart action. To keep fighting the good fight and being more compassionate to others in whatever form that ultimately takes, as long as it takes form.

Amen.

Plus, I bought a Jedi light saber at Disneyland, an elegant weapon for a more civilized age. Really. I did. What?!? It's fun. C'mon, I'm only a fan on the early path toward enlightenment (I hope). Not the nut you're looking for. Move along.

Happy Merry Baby Jesus Where the Force Flows with Mindful Christmas Magic Year Round!

The Dividends of Childhood

I only had a few more things to do before we left. Just a few. That was it. My focal strength flowed to the MacBook bolted to my lap while I sat in our cuddle chair, the one the Mama and me bought way back before the girls were born.

But while I worked the Mama was upstairs getting ready, and Beatrice and Bryce were natives beyond restless -- bouncing across the living room impatiently while waiting to go to their fun pre-K and preschool event, the 10-year Bridges to Kinder anniversary celebration.

The irony of the cuddle chair isn't lost on me (wider recliner built for two adults); I sit there and work and write a lot week after week, as long as I'm not traveling. Yes, I have an "office" nook away from everything else I work in most of the time, but I'm still in that chair.

Again, just a few more things to do...almost there...and then boom! Bryce jumped from the cuddle chair arm into the space next to me. Over and over and over again. Bea shrieked and hopped and bopped like a crazed bunny until I finally got mad and frustrated -- because I just have a few more things to do!

Although I know I shouldn't have been. Angry. At. All. That's when I checked myself because I knew the girls just wanted my attention and wanted to play.

I raised my white flag and parked the computer on the desk.

It's actually the same with any device  of choice, because there's always the immediate (gratification) need -- that important text or email to answer, there's always that great photo to share via Instagram, or there's always that quickly crafted witticism to share on Facebook or G+, all the while my girls simultaneously wanting the immediate gratification of my presence.

Guilty as charged.

This was all prompted by an NPR article this week titled For The Children's Sake, Put Down That Smartphone. In it one expert argues:

"And when parents focus on their digital world first — ahead of their children — there can be deep emotional consequences for the child, Steiner-Adair says. 'We are behaving in ways that certainly tell children they don't matter, they're not interesting to us, they're not as compelling as anybody, anything, any ping that may interrupt our time with them,' she says."

Am I putting my devices away? And if I don't, do I feel like I'm telling my kids they're not important? No way, Jose.

I'm always going to have work to do, I'm always going to want the immediate gratification of social sharing, but they're not always going to want my attention and play.

So play I did. That was the right choice.

Business is transitory, and so is childhood, but childhood can pay dividends that far exceed any promising business plan.

Just ask an infamous sock puppet (Daddy wrote, while sharing the photo on Instagram).

The Joy of Zenning Hard and Well

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Zen hard, my girls. And Zen well.

Daddysaur Magic and Positive Discipline

It stirred, sensing something in its realm. It slowly opened one bleary eye -- suddenly two smaller creatures appeared. Probably B-hivers, it thought. It jumped up from its lair on full alert, scaring the larger of the two creatures.

The Daddysaur bounded to the floor to chase the B-hivers from it's cave, while the Mamasaur stirred restlessly behind them all.

"Girls, wait out in the hall and we'll go downstairs. Mommy's still sleeping and I'll be right there."

Such is the life of late with preschoolers in our prehistoric wake, those moments when we as parents feel older and "tireder" than usual that leads to the grumps with little ones who have boundless energy and endless brain activity.

Last night Bryce woke up yet again from a bad dream and came in our room crying, with the Mama waking, carrying and comforting her back to her bed to sleep. It's been a weekly event even with both of them being pretty good sleepers.

It's when they're awake when it all becomes a handful, playing well with each other one moment, then pounding on each other the next. Or hitting us. Or not listening to us. Or not getting ready to somewhere when we need them to, like school. Or being picky eaters. Or not picking up their things when we ask them. Or Bryce twisting her glasses and popping out a lens on a Sunday when the optometrist isn't in the office, like this very minute.

All very frustrating for fairly emotionally aware, balanced and impulse-controlled adults, like us. And probably you, too.

The Mama's been reading Positive Discipline for Preschoolers, by Jane Nelsen, ED.D., Cheryl Erwin, M.A., and Roslyn Ann Duffy, and now I'm reviewing it. The girls' preschool is based on the positive discipline research and methodology and although I've been aware of it since Bea started preschool, my cursory knowledge has run thin like my patience.

The fact is -- three-year-old's have more energy than at any other time in their lives. Yikes. No wonder that the B-hive continues to buzz so loudly.

The Mama and I grew up in a mixed discipline world of firmer hands and less softer touch, discipline more often associated with punishment and negative behavior extinguishing than positive learning and development. My parents' and Nonna's worlds even more so. Goodness, I was even spanked as a child.

My gruffness today as a parent just doesn't make any magic happen. It only squashes it.

According to the positive discipline book, we as Daddysaurs and Mamasaurs should focus on "Eight Methods for Implementing Positive Discipline":

1. Get children involved in the creation of routines, through the use of limited choices and by providing opportunities to help.
2. Teach respect by being respectful.
3. Use your sense of humor.
4. Get into your child's world.
5. Say what you mean, and then follow through with kindness and firmness.
6. Be patient.
7. Act, don't talk -- and supervise carefully.
8. Accept and appreciate your child's uniqueness.

Easier said than done when you grew up differently as I did, although my parents incorporated some of the above. Miss you Mom and Dad. Mindful positive parenting is where the magic happens.

And yes, Daddysaurs need to get into their B-hivers' world, which thankfully I do.

Who will travel with Daddy next?

Learning to parent the perfect game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Play ball.

The Lost Art of Not Fast Forwarding Life

She pushed her down, then gave her a hug; the inverse relationship of a warm and cuddly contradictory B-hive.

And so it goes for siblings -- brothers and sisters alike from any background. I showed some colleagues the other day pictures of Bea and Bryce roughhousing on the couch, and then we all joked about how it's the eldest sibling's responsibility to keep down the younger while protecting her at the same. Or more precisely, the alternating keep-down-protection plays that occur with regularity throughout life.

Because it is theater of sorts, the dramedy of watching your little girls become aware (and wary) of each other, the elder watching the younger with sick fascination.

Now that Bryce is only two weeks from turning one, and pretty much walking and squawking, soon she'll be able to keep up with her big sister at every turn.

Push down -- hug -- push down -- hug -- push down -- hug -- pull up -- love -- hate -- love again --

If you have brothers or sisters, you've lived it out. Same if you have children of your own.

Watching them laugh and play and cry together (Bea always plugs her ears when Bryce cries), I can only hope that dramedies that play out through childhood, teenage-land and adulthood never escalate to familial excommunication.

The Mama and I keep each other in check about fast forwarding too much, to instead live in and through each moment. We'll try to instill this in the girls as well. But that doesn't mean we don't plan ahead; planning ahead today means being highly adaptable and flexible.

It's the escalation to excommunication that can never be planned for though, and where adaptability and flexibility come in mental-health handy. We grow up and out, and as parents can only hope that our children can let go, forgive and forget, regardless of what happened. Since as siblings, some of us lived through it, and the reality is we don't really ever let go, forgive or forget, we just live in relative shades of each that cast shadows on our hearts. Blood and friendship can separate with age, to never mingle again.

Rewind to now and the love and beauty of our daughters' budding relationship.

Mama, break the fast-forward button. Please.

In and out of the strike zone: the mindful presence of parenting

Second to football, I really miss playing baseball. I only played it as a child from the minor leagues through early high school, and then many years later was a player-coach for a co-ed softball team, where we stunk up the field with more fun than you can shake a Lupus-booger-covered finger at (Bad News Bears reference).

Ironically though I'm not really a sports fan as an adult male. Love sports, not a sports fan. But when I read great stories about a down-and-out pitcher like Jonathan Sanchez who throws the Giants' first no-hitter in 33 years, it's pretty dang exciting and I want to be a fan.

Really guys, I do.

As of this posting, the Giants are only 6.5 games in back of the Dodgers, not bad for a motley crew that wasn't supposed to mop the on deck circle with anyone this season.

So many lovers of the game have written about it metaphorically, how the game mimics life; so much nothing and then "pitch-whack-run-slide" and it's a ballgame.

I've been a busy little "bea" the past two weeks with the SHRM conference and then our fun-filled-family 4th extravaganza in Carson City and Lake Tahoe.

But when we got back, my Comcast high-speed Internet connection pitched me a change-up and then a slider.

It frickin' killed me basically. It's my lifeline to work and play and when it's down I'm crippled. And here's where I'm going with this post: I wasn't proud of how I reacted to it, particularly in front of Beatrice.

Yes, she's only 9 1/2 months old, but as she sat there playing with her toys, Daddy K tried to fix it after spending two hours on the phone with Comcast. Then he laid on the living room floor, punched it repeatedly, sweating and cursing like an Oakland Raiders fan.

I like to talk about myself in the third person for the prouder moments. Hey, everybody needs to vent a little, but every parent needs to keep themselves in check.

Especially parents for the sake of their perceptive modeling children. The same kids who hear their father say the "f-word" and start dancing madly around the house like a happy fan after a three-run homer, repeating it over and over again.

We have a conscience. We are the role models. We have a higher power. We are the parents. We are personally responsible. We have spiritual guidance to keep us focused in the present on being present and reacting more appropriately for situations out of our control.

Let's use the baseball metaphor here however weak it may end up being (sigh). Each and every moment has a strike zone and you're in the batter's box.

Inside the strike zone - if things are in your control, and you can remain in the moment and stay focused, then you can connect bat to ball and get a base hit or even hit the ball out of the park. Otherwise if you strike out, then at least you can go down swinging with family pride.

Outside the strike zone - if things are out of your control, and you can remain in the moment and stay focused, then you can take your base and wait it out, whether the ball equals four balls or it hits you. Otherwise if you charge the mound and clear the benches, then that's what the family is going to remember for years to come.

In parenting as in life, it's not just whether you win or lose - which I would argue certainly has it's place - it's how you play the game.

Go Giants!

Ground control to Beatrice – Flight is a no-go

Three years ago, a year before any Beas buzzed in our heads, Amy and I were on a return flight from Belize that was supposed to land in Houston, but because of severe thunderstorms, was re-routed to New Orleans.

Where we stayed on the tarmac for hours waiting to refuel and for the weather to clear in Texas. We couldn’t get off the plane because since the Katrina tragedy, New Orleans was no longer an international airport (no customs).

Finally we made our way back to Houston where we had less than 15 minutes to make our connecting flight home.

Which meant we had to get through customs and security. Well, we cleared customs quickly, but then Amy kept setting off the metal detector at the security checkpoint and we didn’t know why.

Our carry-on bags made it through the screening, as did I, but they had to pull Amy to the side and wave the wand over her. I wasn’t paying attention to our bags as I watch and waited for her.

Which was when she called out, “Get my bag!”

And through my noisy, rushing crowds I heard, “Get my back!”

I smiled and called out proudly, “I’ve got your back, baby!”

Frustrated, she shook her head when finally the TSA official cleared her to move ahead.

It’s been one of many little mutual jokes since.

Fast forward to yesterday. We’d been preparing all week to fly to Illinois to see family – Daddy, Mama and Beatrice’s first flight in an airplane together.

Everything packed and triple-checked, we loaded up the Saturn VUE (thank you Roger Penske for saving Saturn) with our bags were ready to roll. But Amy walked out leaving her carry-on on the floor next to the door.

I said, “Sweetie, I’ve got your back.”

We shared a laugh and then were on the way to the airport, Bea immediately falling asleep in the back (it was naptime anyway).

The drive was uneventful and I first dropped off Amy, Bea and our bags to check curbside and headed off to long-term parking.

Before I even parked Amy called me and said, “All flights to Dallas are cancelled. I have the bags and the baby but can’t wait in line until you get here.”

Crap. The long-term parking shuttle shuttled me back to the ticketing area. Amy was already in the gridlocked line thanks to some kids’ help with our bags. Bea was doing pretty well and Amy started the long-wait call to American Airlines while I dragged the bags along.

Thirty-five minutes and five feet of line progress later Amy connects with a ticketing agent. She’s been on the phone, sitting watching our bags, while I held a somewhat fussy Bea in line, inching along.

Amy catches my attention, waves me out of line and gives me the kill sign, flaying her hand back and forth across her neck.

“No flights until Saturday out of SFO.” We were at the San Jose airport. Crap.

Amy had American give us a refund and then we hauled our butts over Southwest to see what they could do for us.

Great customer service, but there was nothing available. Amy’s eyes lit up.

“Anything available for Vegas? Hey, we’re all packed, right?”

“No, all overbooked. Sorry,” the ticket agent said.

Crap. We love Vegas. It’s baby friendly, right?

We sat down, our bags strewn around us, and Amy nursed Bea. We were bummed we couldn’t go see the family.

“What about Hawaii?”

“Time to go home,” I said.

Reluctantly we headed out for the long-term parking shuttle.

I've got your back, baby.

Check ignition, and may God’s love be with you…

***

Welcome to Fatherhood Friday! It’s a hip place at Dad-Blogs.com for dads and moms to share stories, ideas, photos and movies with one topic in mind – fatherhood. Good times.

The Baby Eclipse and Date Night Reborn

When God created baby, she eclipsed the sun and moon.

Sometimes the world grows cold.

Even for the most prepared of parents, having a baby means never being quite prepared. It means spending most of your time caring for baby, and less and less time caring for each other (and on yourself, especially if you're a single parent). It means less adult intimacy and more baby poop.

Don't get me wrong – I love my baby B and Mama A. But before A + K = B there was only A + K = K + A and that equaled hot-as-a-firecracker-on-the-fourth-of-July love (as my Grandpa used to say, usually referring to his coffee, not his unending love of Grandma). We traveled the world, went out to dinner whenever we wanted, worked out whenever we wanted, watched whatever we wanted, read whatever we wanted, kept decorative but dangerous household items laying around wherever we wanted, took baths together whenever we wanted and had sex whenever (and wherever) we wanted. Date night occurred every week with passionate regularity.

We never wanted children and we were deemed selfish because of it. Evangelical philosophy aside, I'll never understand that one.

However, we changed our minds and the judgments of others turned into redemption and revelry. That's not why we had a child, to receive redemption. No, we did it because together we chose to have a child and start a family.

We're heading into month six with baby and for the most part we're doing great. But recently we hit a speed bump going to fast without watching the road signs.

Mama and I share all responsibilities including those with baby, and we're fortunate to both have jobs and a baby-care person during the week, but it's true that Mama gets most of the home baby care (and she has the breasts to prove it). Last weekend that didn't work out so well and we were both feeling our roles and responsibilities were skewed and underappreciated, especially me. I never thought I'd become the jealous husband/father of my own wife's time (and my own), but I did. All my mindful living and adult maturity was strong-armed by impotent-rage-man I used to be and I completely shut down. Just an angry knot on a rotting log fuming in a stinky bog. Mr. Butthead with bells on.

How attractive is that? Not very and I was pretty ashamed of my reaction. We worked it out though, because we always do (all work and no play makes for dull parents) – that's what true love is, and realized that we need to "make" more hot-as-a-firecracker-on-the-fourth-of-July-love time for each other again.

It's time for date night to burst from nothingness like a birthed star, this weekend to be exact (or date afternoon; it's the date part that counts). Poetically I've always referred to Amy as my sun and I her moon, but we have to realign our orbits since we now revolve around baby who solely depends on our gravities push and pull.

When God created baby, she eclipsed the sun and moon and then took a nap.

Sometimes the world makes time for us.

By the way, I just joined Dad-Blogs.com (http://dad-blogs.com/) and I'm glad I'm in the Fatherhood Friday mix!

We can own each moment, make it ours and hold God’s attention

I've been teaching myself drumming for about two years now. It's nothing too serious, just the rudiments and a little independence. I don't have a drum kit – just sticks, a practice pad, practice pedals, some print and DVD lessons, a Casio drum machine and a subscription to Modern Drummer.

Independence has been an exercise that extends beyond the ability to play different beats with all four limbs, all while keeping measured time. It's helped activate parts of my Cro-Magnon frontal lobes that have allowed me to truly multi-task – to remain fused in the moment while simultaneously managing multiple tasks, at work and at home.

And that's a good thing when you have a baby in the family. Three may be the magic number, but from what I remember from high school chemistry, it can be a weaker bond. You can challenge my chemistry knowledge, although where I'm going is the added stress and strain children can put on the family – emotionally and financially.

Bea's only 4 months old. Keeping measured time with a 4-month-old has been a pleasure for both Mama A and Daddy K. But what about at 4 years old? 14? 40 (if I'm lucky to live so long)? I'm in it to win it as they say and each day is a lovefest of mindful living. That's one thing to apply at home, but quite another to apply at work.

It takes more than mindful living and loving to raise a family; it takes money as well. And working hard to make ends meet can take its toll on families. I work in the human capital space where workforce management is now the instability of those two words, especially with the unemployment horror that continues to rise across the U.S. It's unprecedented the economic atom-splitting we're seeing unfold day after day. I was listening to an NPR: Planet Money podcast the other day about how single woman with two kids in Dayton, Ohio, learned of her proofreading job's demise via e-mail shortly after she learned there would be no more coffee offered in the office. End of job with no prospects in sight.

That's what you call devastating work/life imbalance and just one of a million stories we'll hear this year. It's a scary time for families, but for those who have stable employment, work/life balance is a misnomer anyway; it's much more fluid and organic than that; we don't really balance our time. Plus, times like these can feel like a violent storm crashing us upon the rocks; time is the enemy. We're fortunate to have stable employment, but no one predicted the world we'd be in today, the perfect storm leaving many folks' time in shambles.

But then we can also experience the little perfect storms that can wash away the sun for a day with a blown out diaper. And then a peeing baby without a diaper. And then a leaking bag of cat litter. And then a sick nanny. And then a wailing on-the-cusp teething baby being handled by Daddy with no more finesse than Blagojevich's denial of wrongdoing. All the while with clients asking for more for less, and needing it yesterday.

All I kept thinking is how much we love each other and Bea (sans the cursing and kicking).

My parents gave me Grace for the Moment by Max Lucado for Christmas. Wonderful book. Here's something that caught my eye the other day:

Unhappiness on earth cultivates a hunger for heaven. By gracing us with a deep satisfaction, God holds our attention.

We all just want to be happy and fight ourselves tooth and nail all the way, by focusing on what happens to us, breaking our attention and missing a beat.

Which brings me back to drumming and one concept I'm fascinated by – driving time. Driving time and owning it. Drummers are the backbone of a band's rhythm (along with the bass), and are called upon to keep the measured time moving along. But real life isn't like a metronome; drummers can also drive time while keeping it. They can slow it down and speed it up – push out on it and suck it back in as if it was their own breath – forming a symbiotic relationship with it – dancing solo with it like one's shadow – but still keep the beat unfettered or from becoming painful booms and crashes. We have a heart, mind and soul, and four limbs, to keep us grounded in fluid measures, aware of now.

So much is out of our hands; so much is in our hands. We can own each moment, make it ours and hold God's attention.

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?)

Waiting for Baby B: Quick tips for new fathers during the 9-month dance

Where the heck is the baby? We wait and wait, and nothing yet. Although the signs are all there that Baby B is getting ready, it's moving at a glacial pace.

Mama A says, "Baby, get moving! Time to get out of there!"

Daddy K says, "Baby B, save yourself! Get out now!"

Baby B says, "Gurgle, gurgle, hiccup" – kick.

So there you have it. All we can do is keep busy and stay active and do the things we do. No, no more strenuous hikes like in Yosemite. This weekend we went to the Greek Festival, the Santa Cruz Library had a book sale and we bought a big bad of books, the Capitola Art & Wine Festival was fun – good times.

But no baby yet, which leads me to some quick tips for new fathers during the 9-month dance:

1. Be involved in the pregnancy. This is your child too and you made it with your wife and/or partner. Go to as many of the baby check-up appointments as you can, whether you're having a hospital birth with an OB or a home birth with a midwife. Ask questions and be informed about what's coming. Work conflicts are one thing if you don't have much flexibility, but complaining because you have to miss a ball game on T.V. or because your global buds are ready for the next video game level – that don't cut it.

2. Don't push the pregnant one's buttons. Even with a mellow pregnancy like we've had so far, the hormonal witches' brew can boil over at times. Case in point, early on in the pregnancy Amy was looking for her favorite sweat bottoms and couldn't find them. So I reluctantly helped to look for them. We realized they had probably fallen behind a dresser drawer, but I was worried about breaking the drawer, and I said that out loud multiple times. I tried to pull it out gingerly while Amy stuck her hand behind the drawer and – snap, ouch – her hand got caught. Then, she cursed repeatedly and removed the drawer with the same kind of adrenaline that saves kittens and children under burning buses.

3. Read and read and read some more about being pregnant and having babies and caring for them (I got a whole list of books if you want 'em). Listen to others' birth stories as well. Rinse and repeat. And then when you're at 39+ weeks, you wait and pray. You're as ready as you're ever gonna be.

4. Stay active and healthy. Don't be a sloth, especially if you're going to be an older parent. Eat right and exercise regularly. Workout and walk with your pregnant spouse. We haven't experienced it yet but we've been told that we're going to need every ounce of energy we can muster in the first 3 months (18 years).

5. Intimacy, intimacy and more intimacy. Kissing and hugging and you know what I mean. Enough said. The baby needs to "know" that Mama and Daddy love each other. The baby's in its own insulated spacesuit, remember that. You're good, unless the water breaks, and then you've got a birth a-comin'.

6. Talk to your unborn child. Read to your unborn child. Poke your unborn child. Good times.

7. Plan for maternity leave, health benefits, baby expenses, wills, guardians and other financial and legal mumbo-jumbo before the baby comes. For parents who need dual incomes to support their families, it's really important to plan as far ahead in the first 12+ months as possible. Leave a bubble of income if possible for unexpected expenses.

8. Be mindful of every moment during pregnancy. It's a pretty fascinating journey. Be aware and actively present in the moment. You should always reflect on your past and plan for your future – but always be mindful of the present and live in your presence.

All right, B. What's up? Or when's down?