Men of Our Present Age

This is dedicated to those who have had lifelong friendships, including Geddy, Alex and Neil of my favorite band Rush. Bless you and your family, Neil. You will be missed. 

The entire restaurant joined in on the birthday song. Afterwards, everyone applauded, and then Robby, my best friend since junior high, was all smile from ear to ear.

"We made it another year," I said.

"Yes, we did," he said.

Then the core of our dearest friends of the past 30-40+ years sitting around the table concurred. We'd been coming to Chico since 1989 to visit Robby at least one to two times per year. Many other dear friends in our overlapping rings of friendships had also been coming to visit for decades as well. If we included the five years post high school when we'd see him, and each other, in Visalia where we grew up, that included a lot of memories of friendships as thick as thieves; we know where many of our bones are buried.

There's also something new revealing itself every time we get together, like this time our friend Rob finding out that Robby had kissed his old girlfriend back in high school. Something he didn't know, and didn't really bother him now, but yet, it kinda did. That conversation went on a bit too long during our meal, as many of our sometimes obsessive, bared-soul conversations can do, but hey, there's always another confession to make and then a bone to bury.

As we got up from the table and headed out for the rest of the day, Robby wheeling himself out in his wheelchair, I thought of an earlier what-if conversation we had. What if we had convinced Robby not to go to the the swim meet that Easter break day in April of our senior year. He was a swimmer and a water polo player, and a handful of us were heading out to Morro Bay for the day, about a two and a half hour drive one way. He thought about it, but really didn't want to miss one of the first swim meets of the season that year. I remember trying to work him over about it, but in the end, he didn't want to miss the meet.

And at that very swim meet was where he broke his neck. Ever since, he uses a wheelchair for mobility. For decades he's lived fairly independently, with regular home health care and help from friends and family.

What would've happened if he never went to that swim meet and went to the coast with us instead? Where would he be now and what would he be doing? He's been an amazing artist over the years and a fervent comic book collector; would he have become a successful commercial artist working for Marvel or DC?

And the even bigger question -- would we all still be friends? Robby has become the cathartic center of so many of our concentric rings of mutual friends, but would we all still be getting together year after year and celebrating these very loving friendships?

That's not really the right question, though, nor a valid one, because the lifetime journeys we've experienced and shared together over the years are real and intact. My dad used to say "should-ofs and could-ofs don't mean squat," only where you're at today and the decisions you make daily are of any consequence. And while there's no one who thinks about the what-if of not breaking his neck more than Robby himself, knowing that he'd trade all the things he's acquired over the years to un-break it, we are all men of our present age, and the years since junior high, high school and beyond of our shared histories are the memories that bind our friendships together today. We've made it another year and have all become the cathartic centers to each other with a present awareness we've never been more grateful for.


Other past posts about these friends of mine:

• The #MeToo Guys
• Men of a Women's Age
• Men of a Consequential Age
• Grown Men Friends and Fathers
• Like Men Knowingly Bound to Their Future
• Because That's How It Works With The Guys That Work
• Men of An Unremarkable Age

More Mindful, Less Social

"Now you swear and kick and beg us that you're not a gamblin' man,
Then you find you're back in Vegas with a handle in your hand..."

–Steely Dan, Do It Again

It really is like being compelled to pull the handle again and again on a slot machine, this new world order of tech smart devices and social media.

Because I can be a winner this time. Every time, in fact. No gambler's fallacy here. I'll jump from writing this to the Facebook tab in my browser, to LinkedIn, and then to Twitter. When I'm on my phone or my iPad, Instagram is the other handle I'll pull.

Because I want to see what my friends and connections are posting, what my latest post likes and comments are, what's going on anywhere and everywhere at any given time.

And there I go again -- checking the social media channels.

This is highly disruptive and in 2020 I have to make a behavioral correction stat. Sure, I've been drinking the social media Kool-Aid since 2007ish, and I can still pull off writing in longer stretches without getting completely consumed by all the pops, buzzes and whirs. Although at times it is a struggle, I can pull off the deeper focused thinking that needs to happen with running a research business (called Talent Board and the Candidate Experience Awards), managing staff, all the project and planning work, and of course all the professional and personal writing I do. However, research has shown that every time we're interrupted from trying to focus on a deep-thinking task, self-inflicted or not, it can take up to 25 minutes to focus again --

Ha! Almost jumped to the social medias again -- but I didn't this time! Take that, you wicked slot machines!

Because there's also the focal time needed for my family. I'm a husband and father to two young daughters, and it's critical that I put the computer away, the phone down and close the iPad. Especially when my daughters remind me that I'm on these devices all -- the -- time. Which I'm not. I swear.

Thankfully we have lots of quality family time with non-tech activities (for a family that does spend their own ample time on their devices) and we continue to have our weekly family meetings, sharing with each other compliments, gratitude, appreciation and "noticing" -- something nice we notice about each other and/or ourselves that we share as a family, among other family-related agenda items (safety skills, managing emotions, what's on tap for the next week's calendar, etc.)

And then -- You go back, Jack, do it again, wheels turinin' 'round and 'round! Damn those social slot machines!

My wife and I mindfully meditate at least once a day, even if it's only for a minute or three. With so much daily disruption of 24/7 news, constant change everywhere and related repetitive stresses, it's surprising that we just don't go completely bonkers sometimes. Empowering ourselves with daily quiet, calm and thoughtful (and even thoughtless) stillness, somehow wrinkled into the non-stop go-go-go, is so vital for our minds, bodies, hearts and souls. We're very grateful that we can make mindful presence a priority.

The good news (I think) is that my device screen time is on average only 1-1.5 hours per day (it was down 15% last week -- thank you Christmas!). The average American screen time is 3+ hours per day. You should read this article by Kevin Roose, a columnist for Business and a writer-at-large for The New York Times Magazine. He was spending over 5 hours on his phone per day!

While there are positive outcomes of connecting with others down the street and around the world via your devices and social media, the addictive qualities of "always on" and the increased anxiety and depression for fear of not getting enough likes (and not being liked), as well as being bullied online no matter what you post, especially among our children and teens, really needs greater scrutiny by us as parents and the supposed adults in the room. Not to mention our compromised privacy, our personal information being sold to advertisers by the minute, and the now infamous continuous glut of fake news clogging our social arteries.

Ugh, I really do need to push away from my devices and social media slot machines much more often starting now -- and turn off all the constant notifications on all devices. It truly has rewired my brain more than I realized and pulling the slot machine handle again and again and again is affecting everything I do. I'm not going to call it a New Year's resolution, because only the act of doing and changing my behavior daily will make a difference to my psyche, my family, my team and my work in the long run. I do still need to use the socials everyday for work and my personal writing, but I will increase the frequency of other activities sans the tech.

So, let's go on a hike. Check. Did that with my wife this weekend. Let's play a game with the kids like Clue and Monopoly. Check. Did that with the kids over the holidays. Let's put a puzzle together. Check. Doing that with my wife since we got her new puzzles for Christmas (the one at the bottom of this piece is called "The Quest For Knowledge" -- so there you go). Let's close all the social tabs on my browser and turn my phone off so I can get my next research projects done. Check. Will do that starting tomorrow! More mindful, less social. I can dig that.

Wait a minute [checking the socials]. Damn you Facebook! Triple 7's! You go back, Jack, do it again...

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.

This Nickel and Dime Time

Either you're in it comfortably, or it owns your ass. When you're in it, there's no sense of it, and your mindful presence can move freely about in all directions without worrying about direction. When it owns you, it's omnipresent and visceral and presses in on you from all directions with every direction being a painful reminder of where you've been and where you think you're going.

Or where you need to go. Like 15 miles at 30-35 miles per hour to eventually fly home from our Hawaiian vacation. Of course, first-world problems and all that, and we left in plenty of time to get to the airport on time, but it all started with the email alert.

The email alert from the airline saying to arrive at least 2.5 hours early because the security lines will be longer than usual (and you don't want to miss your flight). The parenthetical part of the previous sentence wasn't in the email alert, but they might as well have written it.

And that's when it owned my ass. "Amy, we need to leave a little earlier to make sure we get there in time."

"Don't worry, we will," she replied.

And we did leave a little early. Kind of. But the stretch of slow road with stop lights and the Hawaiian pace of "hang loose, brah" poked and prodded at my patience. The Mama, what I lovingly call my wife, doesn't have the same reactive behavior I display when it comes to time owning my sensibilities and flopping me back and forth on the ground like a baby playing with a new toy for the first time. Or the tenth time.

No, the Mama is quite the opposite, cool as as a cucumber, one of my least favorite vegetables in fact (insert tongue in cheek and head into butt). It was then the moments came like invisible poison darts from all directions and I squirmed in my seat and sighed audibly. I tried my best to be in the moment instead.

"I know I get stressed. But I know we'll get there just fine. Right?" I said to the Mama, not really all that convinced.

"Yes, Sweetie. We'll be fine."

But mile after slow mile flattened me like new gravities adding up while the Mama and the girls talked away about their favorite parts of vacation. I chimed in mechanically, but the poison from the imaginary time darts had already entered my blood stream and all I could think about was the nickel and dime time of all the little things that needed to be done that eats away at me like returning the rental car and then hauling all of us and our stuff onto the shuttle to the airport check-in and checking our bags and then slowly making our way through security where we could eat a quick bite before we boarded the plane and then me rushing the Mama and the girls to hurry up and eat and then the Mama saying don't rush me sweetie and that she wanted to take a quick look in the gift shop with the girls and then me saying they will close boarding at 10 minutes after the hour if we aren't there and her saying we'd be fine and my head swirling as if flushed down a toilet and then we all had to use the bathroom one more time and fill up our water bottles before heading to our gate and getting on the plane and sitting in our seats and the plane door actually closing 10 minutes after the hour just like I thought while I thought about the unsettled dreams I had just a few nights earlier about past do-overs that can never be done, and the waking lessons I want to leave my children with someday and the reality of vacation bills and work and saving money to do it all again next year while each year passing on more and more life lessons to the girls and their teenage angst-filled years to come and then paying for college if they go to college and then —

Breathe.

All of which would eventually happen as we turned onto the main airport drive and headed to the rental car return.

It can certainly own your ass, this nickel and dime time. I recommend cashing in on being in it when you can. Amen.

Into the Open Air

It's strange because I've never gone skydiving. Yet that's what I imagined in order to stay focused while she read to me. Metaphorically falling fast through the air with literally no ability to think about anything else except the unrelenting presence of those seconds. 

And it worked. At least the idea of it helped to narrow my flailing attention to a fine focal point mindful presence. 

There's just been too much going on up in my noggin of late. Work, travel and seemingly a gazillion decisions to make and actions to take every day. And that's not even counting the other gazillion decisions and actions to make every day at home and helping to take care of each other and our children. That's not unusual for many people today raising a family and keeping a roof overhead, food on the table and squirreling some nuts away for always imminent rainy days. The Mama (what I lovingly call my wife) experiences it even more than I do, being the primary child-rearer as well as working, running a girl scout troop and now volunteering more. Something I'm doing more of now as well.

Of course not all of what we do are absolute necessities, but they are important activities nonetheless that give us personal joy, like the writing of these pieces for my blog, Get Off The Ground. They are critical to our personal learning and development, our passions and even our sanity. We are fortunate enough to be able to do these things while still squirreling those nuts away and praying for continual sunny days.

And every day the Mama works with our girls on reading and getting their homework done. Beatrice has more homework than Bryce being in 2nd grade, reading and math in particular, although Bryce has recommended work in her combined kindergarten/1st grade class.

The Mama does most of this work with the girls. It can be quite rewarding and very frustrating at the same time, since like most kids wanting to only play, doing homework is a painful distraction from just that. The girls could be playing with their toys, playing with our Guinea pigs, playing games on their iPads, drawing pictures, writing stories or watching a little television.

"Beatrice, it's time to read and do your reading log," says the Mama.

"No, I don't want to right now," replies Beatrice.

"The longer you take doing it means the longer it will take overall."

Sigh. "Okay."

Homework happens both before school and after (there's a lot of homework for 2nd graders these days). Sometimes it all goes well, and sometimes the Mama gets frustrated with the girls. And with me too, because maybe I'm sitting there working or even writing like I'm doing this moment, when she could really use some more help than what I usually give in the homework department.

So I do more helping now. As it should be, helping my children learn and grow, because that isn't an optional requirement of parenting -- it's required parenting. Beatrice has also needed more focused investment due to the early delays she's had.

However, the other morning, when the Mama called down to me from upstairs to "please help Beatrice with her reading," my head was a flutter with a gazillion butterfly effects and other things to do. Beatrice sat next to me and started reading out loud Miss Brown Is Upside Down! and I didn't her a word she said for the first minute.

I'm the one who preaches about mindful presence and being in the moment and focusing on the things that matter in the immediacy -- and yet it's a continuous struggle when there are a gazillion things to be done, which there always will be. This time, for whatever reason, the image of me jumping out of a plane and into the open air, literally jumped out of a plane and into the open air.

I jumped and still remained tethered to the mothership of my frontal lobes. Nothing else mattered except me falling over 100 miles per hour, my cheeks pulled back and flapping in the rushing wind, while Beatrice read next to me. Within seconds everything went silent around me as I fell, except for Bea. All I could focus on was her forming and speaking each word, her cadence and her periodic query about how to say a word that wasn't familiar. She finished her 15 minutes of reading and then had to pick one of the exercises in her reading log to complete. I read the choices and she picked the one where she had to identify 10 action words from the book and write them down.

Afterwards, I pulled the cord, my parachute opened and yanked me up and away from Beatrice, and then I floated gently back down into the cacophony of a gazillion decisions to make and actions to take.

Beatrice's depiction of Daddy's metaphor

I'll Never Miss a Moment Again

"It's good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end." —Ernest Hemingway

Somewhere over Guyana I started feeling sick. Watching Santa fly over the South American sovereign nation via the Official NORAD Santa Tracker, I could feel my insides churn and flip. I chalked it up to indigestion at first due to our yummy but huge Christmas Eve dinner at home.

After some generic pink tummy medicine, I seemed to feel better and proceeded with our Christmas Eve. When it was bedtime for the girls, we read 'Twas the Night Before Christmas and a few other stories and then put them to bed. We reminded them they couldn't get up before 5:30 AM, and being the early birds the entire family is, especially me and Bea, that would be tough on Christmas morning. Thankfully everything felt pretty good in my gut area at this point.

The Mama and I watched some more TV ourselves and then set up the rest of our Christmas gifts and prepped for Santa's visit. At this point he was already somewhere along the East Coast after delivering a few billion gifts elsewhere around the world.

We went to bed and the Mama asked how I felt. I told her better, but that wasn't exactly true.

"Wake me up if you need anything, Sweetie," she said.

But by 9:45 PM while reading in bed and shortly after the Mama dozed off, my tummy churned and flipped with a vengeance. I took more pink stuff, but then an hour later I lay there wide awake with a throbbing gut.

Crap, I thought. This is more than just a belly and/or intestines ache. I must be getting sick. Please no, not on Christmas Eve.

That's when the chills started. Although I felt hot laying there miserable in bed, when I got up to go to the bathroom, the chills set in, something I hadn't felt in years. Decades actually, especially if this was the flu. We all had our flu shots again this year, as we do every year, but that's never an iron-clad guarantee, and we did just return from that big petri dish amusement park called Disneyland.

But still, was it food poisoning somehow? None of the girls had belly aches after dinner, so that didn't seem viable. I was the only one who ate the sugar cookie dough, but I've done that every year for over 40 years and have never gotten sick on it. Either way I did not feel well and worries about the fact that I wouldn't make it through the night without getting sick.

No sooner had I thought that the horrid discomfort of painful bodily expression started from the bottom end. It was only 11:30 PM.

Back in bed things only got worse. I did everything I could to focus on my breathing, that maybe that would help me settle in the moment and feel better, but the bad brewing continued. I got the heating pad out to see if that would help, and while the heat felt good, the pain didn't subside.

12:00 AM, 12:30 AM, 1:00 AM -- I watched minutes of sick tick away, but it only got worse. At 1:30 AM I couldn't take any more and things erupted from the top end. I hadn't thrown up for 14 years and it's never an experience anyone wants to remember anew.

By 2:30 AM I felt slightly better, but every time I got out of bed to go the the bathroom, and going I still was from the other end, the chills were so bad I was visibly shaking. I looked out the bathroom to our street below and imagined Santa swooping down through our neighborhood to deliver the goods. Sugarplums dancing in my head indeed.

I shivered and shuffled back to bed. At 3:30 AM I was really worried I wasn't going to make Christmas morning. I felt horrible and knew at some point I'd be throwing up again. I've never missed Christmas with the girls, I thought.

This must be a reset. The thought had popped up in my fevered mind more than once that night. Maybe it's a karmic reset; a prophetic message from God. A needed purge and a movement in a new and improved healthier lifestyle direction. I've been working on my mind, body and spirit a little more of late, and although I've been pretty healthy, there's always work to be done, and this Big Daddy could use some more work, some true healthy mindfulness in equal measure applied regularly and liberally, to ensure I'm always there for me and my family. And although this wasn't the physical diet I had planned, we didn't eat that much crap at Disneyland, did we, Sweetie? Sigh...

Reset. Maybe. Although a little too convenient for being this close to the end of the linear calendar year, a week before the New Year. I'm just being delusional. Blech. It's not like I'm living on the streets of Bangladesh. Good God...

At 4:30 am I prayed/meditated that I'd make it at least until the girls opened their gifts, and then I could go back to bed.

Then, at 5:31 am, Bea had gotten up and I woke the Mama up and told her how I felt, which, if I were a cartoon, had felt like an ACME truck had knocked me off a cliff and I fell to the canyon bottom below. Poof. Wile E. Coyote indeed.

She told me she was sorry and that I should stay in bed, but I had to go downstairs. Bryce came in and said, "Daddy, it's time to go see what Santa brought us!"

And downstairs I went. I don't know exactly how I did it without getting sick all over, but I did. The Mama took my temperature and sure enough it was 101 degrees. Blech. But I made it for about 45 minutes as we opened gifts and took a few pictures. My limit hit, I slowly went back upstairs and straight to the bathroom, got sick, and then slept for nearly three hours.

Still feverish, but finally feeling better in the belly, I meandered back downstairs while the girls were playing with all their new toys and cool science gadgets, and the Mama was cleaning up. I had missed the Star Wars pancakes as well. Dammit.

"'You missed Christmas, Jack,'" I joked, quoting the character of Kate from early in the movie The Family Man, when Jack returns after freaking out Christmas morning and taking off to NYC for a few hours.

The Mama laughed and said, "I'm so sorry you got sick, Sweetie. I hope you feel better. Girls, tell daddy you love him."

"Love you!"

"Are you feeling better, Daddy?"

"Yes. Love you, girls. Love you, Mama. Merry Christmas."

Even with fever, my gaze focused fully on my girls and all was well in my world, that 25th day of December, anno Domini (in the year of our Lord), two-thousand and fifteen.

In the end, I didn't miss Christmas, and if God willin' and the creek don't rise, as my Pop always used to say, and of course if I'm always present and paying attention in sickness and in health, I'll never miss a moment again.

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!

Where The Real Magic Happens

“Magic happens—but it often requires some planning.” —Neil Peart

I sat less than two feet from the TV. Fixated. My butt glued to the floor. Nothing else mattered except for the singing and dancing monsters, children and adults on the screen. The chill of foggy frosted winter mornings or the scorching summer Central Valley heat made no difference. My mom would vacuum all around me and I still wouldn’t budge. I didn’t hear or see anything else except for my special show brought to me by the letters A-Z.

“…can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street…”

That blessed little Children’s Television Workshop creation (now Sesame Workshop) that launched learning and imaginations not only for the Mama’s and my generation, but also for the subsequent generations since – including our girls. Over 45 years of Jim Henson furry Muppet fun on an imaginary inner-city street in New York City.

The Big Apple idea that shared big yet safe, sometimes socially and culturally sensitive, accessible information for toddlers and children (and their parents) about learning and life. So it was only appropriate that when we planned our big family vacation adventure to New York City and beyond, that we’d end where it all began for us as children – Sesame Place – the amusement park that celebrates all that’s huggable Muppet and more. To sit on that beloved corner of 123 Sesame Street with my girls

We’re West Coast folk for sure, but we decided that for this adventure we wanted to go east, to do something different and give the girls some travel sea "land" legs for a future of continuous discovery. We’ve traveled many different places with them prior to this, but this was the longest duration we’ve done “on the road again” since before they were born. The Mama architected the journey and I helped with a few finishing touches and then we were off…no step-by-step planning, just enough of an outline to guide us on our journey and make some magic.

Because that’s what travel is for us, experiencing new locales and their locals who light up synapses we never knew we had like exotic fireflies on a sweet summer night. That includes those across town or across the state or across the country or around the globe. As much as our budget bandwidth allows, and even then the Mama is quite creative with a dollar.

It’s important to us that our girls eventually find it important to them that there’s a whole world of adventure and experience out there, easy and hard lessons alike, spacious views and painful realities, that will give them a rich tapestry of perspectives and worldviews. We can only hope that these experiences, along with the mindful presence we try to impart on them over the years and the spirituality they may find, will help them hewn the strongest of life staffs for their journeys far and wide.

Oh, and there’s the fun. Tons and tons of fun.

So now after over 6,300 miles of planes, trains and automobile through three states, five cities, a cave and visits with family and friends in less than two weeks, we’re home.

And that’s where the real magic happens anyway, when the blur of what we've experienced pools in our busy heads and hopeful hearts like summer rain in Central Park.

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.

Fueled By Girl Power

I remember the disappointment, the questions of why not, the remarks about legacy lost and lack of family pride. All because we weren't going to have children.

But we weathered it all anyway, because we really didn't want to have children. Ever. Even after being together six years and finally getting married (which we're now on our way to 10 years of marriage and 16 years since the day we met), we still didn't want children.

Let it be known though that we didn't disparage any couple of any combination who did. Ever. Living fairly free and independent in a country like ours, these are choices we made, and those we knew with kids made. We still celebrated all our choices; we celebrated life, nurturing it together without judgement. We had many friends and family who wanted and had children happily, and those who struggled to have them, happily or not. But again, it made no never mind to us.

Of course, my family probably blamed the now Mama somewhat, my lovely wife, since she was the woman in this man/woman union equation, the one with a supposedly fertile uterus with eggs o'plenty just waiting to co-mingle and bind with Daddy's DNA. Although they were a little shocked that I was even more adamant about it all at times.

We still celebrated our own mother's, even with differing family struggles as children in each of our own camps. We celebrated family and embraced most of the times as adults we could spend together in both camps, however difficult it was at times -- and God knows how difficult it was at times.

It ain't all hugs and kisses, kids.

And yet, so it was. Without children. Without being a father or mother. Until it wasn't. Until we changed our minds, without judgement for those who never did, and never will, whether because of horrible childhoods or something simpler, less traumatic.

On this Mother's Day, I celebrate my young daughters, the Mama and her sister and her mom, my sister and our mother (who passed last December), our grandmothers and great-grandmothers and other family and friends alike. I celebrate all the women who have had mostly positive impacts on my life, mothers or not, because of teaching me love and patience and mindful presence and a balanced life and empathy and communication skills and team-building skills and community-building skills and --

But for those who don't celebrate it, who say they despise it's very commercialized lie (I'd argue that Valentine's Day, Easter and Christmas are worse), and/or because it perpetuates the myth that women must have babies because it's God's will and/or it's biological and unnatural if they don't, and/or because they had crappy moms and families they want nothing to do with, then I get it. No judgement. Just walk away from today and wait for tomorrow. It'll come soon enough for you to embrace your Zen.

I, however, am fueled by girl power. Happily.

In a fair and equitable way, of course.

Give Your Fuzzy A Present

"Fuzzy is very sad. Fuzzy needs to open a present."

And there it is. Through all the loss and drama my family has experienced during the past few months, leave it to Beatrice to keep it real for Daddy. Both Beatrice and Bryce don't really understand what happened with my Poppa, their grandpa and my Pop, when he died, but Bea realizes he's gone. We've handled it with explanation-light for Bea, although Bryce is still really too young to get it.

They also don't understand my mom's chronic illness and continual health problems, their Nana. They don't know how stressful it was to get Nana from my sister's to us right after I returned from Europe, and then me driving her back home to Oregon so she could reset in her health system while her doctors facilitated some stability. Although with my mom these days it's more like a defective light bulb that constantly flickers off and on, sometimes shiny brightly with radiance, and sometimes going completely dark.

But the girls did feel the stress of their daddy, and that's something I'm going to have to be more sensitive to as they get older and more aware of every nuance to life's pops, buzzes and brain stops.

Any comfort for the chronically ill is always welcomed, and getting mom set up with her iPad and FaceTime so she can see the B-hive any time she wants was critical. I have to continually explain to her how to use the program, but she'll get there. That time to be around any friends and family now is healing, if sadly brief and fleeting. The reality of my dad being gone has all but flattened her to the far side of the universe with a gravity unmatched from the darkest heart of a collapsed star. She's alone in her house now. However, we are working on moving her down to us as soon as feasibly possible.

Fuzzy is Beatrice's little swatch of pink, silky and "fuzzy" Winnie the Pooh comfort that her Auntie Jill made, the Mama's sister. It's her soul food comfort in the form of a blankie; Bryce has her own bigger yellow blankie. Each of us has our own "blankie" of sorts,  some literal or figurative vessel that carries us away and soothes us with a gift of calming joy.

Be thankful for your own well moments of body and spirit, and be sensitive to those loved ones whose very fragility reduces them to motes alighting inside an empty house at dusk. Give them the gift of love and hugs this holiday season; give your fuzzy a present.

Happy Thanksgiving.

The Lightness of Pop

"It was only a sunny smile, and little it cost in the giving, but like morning light it scattered the night and made the day worth living." -- F. Scott Fitzgerald 

It was always a sunny smile, my dad's. A master of levity, Pop injected humor and silliness into most everything he did. He infectious laugh brought smiles to anyone in its radius, the scar above his lip glinting under light like polished glass. For the life of me, I can't remember how he got the scar. All I know is that it added a richness to his character, like biscuits soaked in honey and butter -- you could never get enough.

This from someone who served in the Air Force and who also was a law enforcement veteran of 32 years. Anyone who ever worked with him shared the same sentiment -- from the most hardened cops and criminals (who he called his customers), to literal strangers he'd meet on the street, in the store, in the campground, in the post office, in the doctor's office...everyone experienced his sunny disposition, his goofy humor and his viral smile.

He inspired me to do the same, to be silly, to embrace life and all the people in it, to give life and all the people in it a second and third chance, to laugh in the face of adversity -- while at the same time tackling it and pinning it to the ground. Mercy me, that ain't easy, but his gumption combined with the Mama's has helped me keep it pinned to the ground.

And when the Mama and I started the B-hive, we knew we'd go all in. For us, there was and is no alternative; your children B-come your life, and your life B-comes more beautiful, more vibrantly alive with wondrous mess, like crayons melting together beyond the lines and creating pictures we never thought possible.

Pictures of rainbows and silly faces and sunny smiles and birthday hats. There's enough darkness out there as it is. I prefer to stay in the lightness of Pop.

That was when I wept

She didn't log them in correctly, so there was no record of them ever being there. No video surveillance to capture who took them. No witnesses whatsoever since they were the only ones there besides the daycare owner, who for whatever reason was out of the room.

And now they were gone. 

It felt like a hot knife had opened me up, my vitals then falling to the ground with a slow-motion crash like glass splintering into billions of sharp slivers. Slivers that I had to crawl across emotionally while the Mama and me grappled with our loss.

The details were so painfully real, which is why I nearly wept when I awoke this morning, not wanting to recount the terrible dream, not even wanting to share any more of what I remember here (and I still remember too much).

It's one of parents' worst nightmares -- having a child abducted. According to the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, the U.S. Department of Justice reports that each year:

• 797,500 children (younger than 18) were reported missing in a one-year period of time studied resulting in an average of 2,185 children being reported missing each day.
• 203,900 children were the victims of family abductions.
• 58,200 children were the victims of non-family abductions.
• 115 children were the victims of “stereotypical” kidnapping. (These crimes involve someone the child does not know or someone of slight acquaintance, who holds the child overnight, transports the child 50 miles or more, kills the child, demands ransom, or intends to keep the child permanently.)

Over 2,000 reported missing each and every day. Dear God.

So this morning, I spent even more time playing with my girls, holding them in my arms and burning the memories into my mind like faded photographs of happier times from my own childhood.

That was when I wept.

The only idea I have is in what I know

Emotional paralysis doesn't have to mean helplessness, but it's paralysis nonetheless, however fleeting, thankfully mine no longer tainted with any guilt or resentment of old. Even in the moment of hesitation, the decision has already been made; the heart and mind united along the beachhead shoring up any breaches: the money to get there and back, the lost work time, the being away from my girls and the Mama.

"I have to go," I said.

"I know," she said. "We love you and we love them."

"I know," I said. "I love you."

But admittedly, there is helplessness in the helping, an oppressive feeling as if buried up to your neck in sand with the tide coming in. I arrived Wednesday night in Oregon to be with my tired, sick parents. Dad finishing his fifth week of radiation treatment for stage 3 melanoma, and Mom always struggling with a lifetime of auto-immune disorder as well as myriad of interrelated illnesses.


I watch them hold one another and I see the Titanic movie scene where the old couple lays together inside the sinking Titanic, about to go down with the ship. (This was actually based on the real characters Ida and Isador Strauss, who was the co-owner of Macy's department store. Both were offered a place on the lifeboat but Isador refused to go as long as there were still women aboard. His faithful wife refused to leave his side. The couple wasn't actually in bed when the ship went down, but rather on a pair of deck chairs.)

Whatever the story, the metaphor isn't lost on me and I again imagine us as them now; they will go down with their ship together just as the Mama and me have pledged to do, with nothing less than honor and timeless love.

I do know my being here for any length of time does help them emotionally if not physically (running errands and helping around the house). Taking my dad to his last three radiation treatments wasn't a lot, but I'm glad I was here to do it. He's amazingly stalwart and has been so each time he's faced medical adversity. Mom has the ability to draw strength from which there should be no more and does whatever she has to do, just as Dad does for her when he's well and she's not.

They thank God for watching over them and giving them strength and guidance. So do I.

I have no idea the pain they each experience -- no idea what it's like to be strapped to a table and have the sun's power channeled straight into my neck every day for weeks, no idea what it's like to be in constant pain as my body deteriorates more every day.

The only idea I have is in what I know, that I love them regardless and am glad I'm here, heart and mind united.

All done for now, Mom and Pop. All done for now.

To Tomorrow and Beyond

It didn't come in the mail all week, even though we told her about it all week.

It's no one's fault, other than the perpetual business-bleeding and delivery inconsistencies of United States Postal Service. We've had package fails before from family outside of California.

True, there's still one more day for it to arrive tomorrow on Halloween itself, the homemade Toy Story Buzz Lightyear costume for Beatrice made with loving detail by Auntie Jill, the Mama's sister.

The plan was for Bea to dress up as Buzz, Daddy to dress up as Woody, Bryce to dress up as Ham (actually a Piglet costume, but don't tell her that), and Mama we're still figuring out (hey, we're on a budget).

We had to have a contingency plan, though. When it didn't come last Thursday, Mama and me began to pitch other costumes to Beatrice.

Fairy? No!

Pooh bear? No!

Princess? No!

Jessie? No!

Buzz Lightyear! Buzz Lightyear! Buzz Lightyear!

*sigh*

So what to do? No Buzz costumes in stock anywhere locally. And for even those available online, shipping was too tight and costly.

I found some homemade Buzz costume instructions online yesterday, and we thought, what the hell -- let's give it a try.

I went to Ace Hardware and bought some paint and colored tape, came home and gathered a box and other pieces of cardboard, and then went to work. I finished the cutting and painting yesterday and then finished the detail today. She hasn't tried the entire costume on yet, but the head, chest and wing pieces were the critical components and they seem to fit and work just fine.

This after a sporadically sleepless night last night with poor Bryce and her new snotty cold and me worrying about the entire future state of the B-hive, the country and the world.

I awoke groggily to this quote:

"When I look back on all these worries, I remember the story of the old man who said on his deathbed that he had had a lot of trouble in his life, most of which had never happened." -- Winston Churchill

Thank you, Mr. Churchill (and the Mama thanks you too -- she's always telling me the same thing). The Buzz Lightyear costume got pulled off. Back to the mindful presence of today.

To tomorrow and beyond, my sweet B-hive. Infinity will have to wait.

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.

Space travel, matching babies and warm fuzzies

Family space travel can be grueling. We were in orbit twice as long as we were scheduled to be; the B-hive melted down and the Mama and me hallucinated, our bodies slick with dirty sweat.

No, space travel is sometimes not glamorous. At all. Especially when you have to deal with poor customer service. You can read about it here and here if you're interested.

Mercy, there is no better place to hold on to the why of wonder and laughter.

We did eventually reenter the earth's atmosphere and landed on the banks of Mississippi, in America's Heartland.

Unlike our family vacation with my folks in Oregon, this one in Illinois/Iowa was filled with lots of extended family -- Mama's mom and grandma, aunts and uncles, cousins and baby second cousins.

As I've written before, some of my fondest family memories are those when our entire extended family on my mom's side would gather for Easter, the 4th of July, Thanksgiving and Christmas. Second only to the holidays themselves, being a little kid snuggled safely in the family bosom was the only place I wanted to be. That didn't mean there wasn't family friction and other varying forms of family dysfunction, but the family bosom was still safe and warm.

My family is splintered everywhere now, the greatest concentrations being in the California Central Valley and Southwest Missouri. And although we've talked of getting together more over the years, to revisit the days of old, it just hasn't transpired.

But with the Mama's family, both in Illinois/Iowa and Nevada, it has, partly because there's been a greater connection between her and her family and the effort more effortless -- bidirectionally -- the bosom still safe and warm. There's a reality that the maternal bonds are stronger than paternal in extended families, at least in my experience. It doesn't mean I don't care about my family any less, it's just the reality we live.

This latest family vacation was still hard with two little girls in tow, because according to the baby regression table, after 7 days away from home, Bryce was back to waking what seemed to be every minute.

However, that didn't take away from the every minute of family joy, particularly when all the cousins' babies played together in matching outfits (made my none other Auntie Jill, Mama's sister). C'mon, you know you can't get enough of matching babies. They line the family bosom with warm fuzzies and protect us during space travel.

Sadly we haven't had many warm fuzzies near us since we've birthed the B-hive, with the exception of short stints from Mama's mom and niece. Maybe it's time to change that.

Maybe...

Back to family space boot camp we go. Because space travel can be fun, too.